Miss de Bourgh in Bath
by SwordSwallower17
Summary: After Mr. Darcy takes the thoroughly unsuitable Miss Bennet to be his wife, a most seriously displeased Lady Catherine and her daughter repair to Bath in search of new prospects. What adventures await Anne in the exciting spa city? Now with something of a sequel: "The Miss Bennets Set Forth."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note**: I'm always interested in the fringe characters of just about everything, and Anne de Bourgh is one of my favorites. I just think her position is so unique—she's a wealthy, high-ranking young woman, who should by rights be very powerful and independent (for the time period), but instead she's constantly under her the thumb of her mother, who just about defines power and independence. I'm sure Lady Catherine was quite the Big Lady on Campus in her heyday, and the fact that she didn't encourage her daughter to follow in her footsteps—that she in fact did pretty much the opposite, by never encouraging her towards any accomplishments and never even having her come out—is so remarkable to me. It's my belief that this is mostly an issue of control, that Lady Catherine recognized she wouldn't be able to easily manage a younger version of her own self, so instead she molded Anne into someone more convenient. But, of course, Anne _is_ Lady Catherine's daughter, so she must have at least a little bit of gumption, right?

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

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_Miss de Bourgh in Bath_

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The marriage of Miss Elizabeth Bennet to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had not been cause for celebration at the venerable estate of Rosings Park in Kent. The servants had not been gifted an extra cask of wine; there had been no music played, other than what Mrs. Jenkinson could summon up of her limited and distant childhood training on the pianoforte (Mrs. Collins, who generally entertained the Rosings party when no-body better was available, was in attendance at the unfortunate wedding); no-body had worn ribbons in their hair or on their shoes, or dressed in anything finer than evening-clothes; no pheasant or cake was served. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had marked the occasion by deeming it not an occasion worth marking, and had not mentioned the event once in the course of the day—and, of course, no-one else had the courage to mention it if _she_ would not.

Miss Anne de Bourgh, however, could not help remembering the date. It had occurred to her late in the morning, as she was taking her daily walk around one of the gardens (one of the smaller gardens, for her esteemed mother would not hear of Miss Anne's walking _too_ much, or being out in the air for more than a half-hour), anxiously shielded by Mrs. Jenkinson' vigilant parasol. A beautiful day for a wedding, she thought to herself, and then with a start she recalled exactly whose wedding was to be so blessed by the fine weather.

Mrs. Jenkinson noticed the sudden, if slight, agitation of her charge, and urgently suggested that Miss Anne take her arm, or seat herself on one of the garden benches, or indeed just go inside and forget the walk altogether. Miss Anne waved her off impatiently. "It is nothing," she declared, "only I remembered something I had forgot. I am quite well."

Mrs. Jenkinson assented, but did not seem entirely convinced. Miss Anne could not blame her; it was thoroughly understood, at Rosings, that any of Miss Anne's protestations of wellness were only the poor lady's bravery in the face of her illness, which must always be taking such a toll on her. What this illness was, and how exactly it manifested itself, was unclear even to Miss Anne herself, but none of the servants could deny that she certainly was a sickly-looking little thing.

Miss Anne's thoughts at the moment were not on her health, however, but on the wedding of her cousin to Miss Bennet. It was not a thought that brought her pain, exactly, for though she thought Mr. Darcy acceptably gentlemanlike, she had never been able to fall in love with him (or, rather, make him fall in love with her) the way her mother wished. She was not exactly fond of Miss Bennet, agreeable as she seemed, for the young lady was thoroughly impertinent and had spoken to Lady Catherine in a way not even her own daughter would have dared to do. Lady Catherine had furthermore condemned the rest of the Bennet sisters as plain, ill mannered, stupid creatures without a hint of good breeding who, like Miss Elizabeth, had shown Lady Catherine none of the deference due to a woman of her rank. And the youngest one was all but a fallen woman, saved only by a hasty elopement! Miss Anne was not pained by these reflections—indeed, they brought her a certain satisfaction for, as her mother so frequently told her, she may not have the health or beauty or accomplishments of other young ladies, but at least she had breeding and a title; that was worth more than any thing.

But that her cousin should have married into such a family as the Bennets! Miss Anne did not regret the marriage of Mr. Darcy so much as she might have done, her mother being the one with designs upon him and Anne being merely a pawn of Lady Catherine's; yet she could not understand how her cousin had been so ready to toss aside the duties of rank and family, for such a woman as Elizabeth Bennet. Shakespeare, of course, held that "love makes fools of us all", and certainly Miss Bennet must be a charming enough creature in her own right, or Mr. Darcy could not have been so bewitched. Yet Anne could not see herself stooping to marry anyone of whom her mother did not approve, which left her rather limited. She reflected, with a pang of sadness, that with Mr. Darcy's wedding, any hopes of marriage she might have entertained had significantly diminished. It was a shame, for she truly would have liked to leave her mother's household, and become mistress of her own.

This thought so noticeably dampened her spirits that Mrs. Jenkinson could be easy no longer, and insisted that Miss Anne return to the house and rest.

Lady Catherine unexpectedly broached the subject of Mr. Darcy's marriage that evening over supper. "Well, Anne," she said, quite without prelude, "I trust that you shall never be induced to take so unfortunate a step as your cousin has taken this day."

"I am sure I shall not, your Ladyship," Miss Anne said, but her voice was rather low and Lady Catherine had not quite finished, and therefore she went unheard.

"It is quite distressing to me, that my sister's son has so degraded the family name," Lady Catherine said firmly. "You know, of course, that he was intended for you—that, by rights, today should be _your_ wedding day."

This last declaration was so startling that Anne, who had not thought of it in quite that way, was at a loss for a reply. Her mother took no notice.

"You should have been mistress of Pemberley by week's end," she continued.

There was a long pause. Miss Anne found herself unexpectedly fighting back tears, which she endeavored to hide from her mother.

"I have long hoped, Anne," Lady Catherine said finally, and there was a note of frustration in her voice, "that you should be mistress of Pemberley. I am most seriously displeased that you have been replaced by a girl of no birth, no connexions, and no breeding whatsoever. I consider this a grave offense and injustice to our family line. From this point forward, Mr. Darcy and his wife shall no longer be worthy of our notice."

"Rightly so, your Ladyship," Mrs. Jenkinson chimed in, in the absence of Mr. Collins. Lady Catherine gave her a look of solemn approbation.

"However," she went on, "I am not to be defeated so easily. Mr. Darcy is lost to us—to _you_, Anne—but we do have other options. I have in mind for you another gentleman, who is perhaps not quite so worthy of your hand as Mr. Darcy, but is next to him in rank and importance, and can only be improved by my particular notice and influence. At any rate, you are growing older, and your looks and health are swiftly fading, so we must do what we can in the time that we have. I will not have my daughter die a spinster; I am quite determined to have grandchildren. Rosings Park will fall into no-one else's hands upon my death."

Miss Anne, who was within months of turning twenty-five, and therefore felt the truth of her mother's words, could only agree.

Some nights later, the Collinses had returned to Hunsford Parsonage, and one of their first objects was to spend an evening at Rosings. They offered Lady Catherine such a scant account of the wedding, and the news from Hertfordshire and all of their connexions there, as that noble lady cared to hear. Mrs. Collins was restored to the pianoforte, where she was studiously enduring Lady Catherine's lectures on her mediocre performance and the importance of practice. Mr. Collins was seated as close to her Ladyship as his respect for her rank would allow, and was attentively engaged in agreeing with everything she said. Miss Anne was reading, but the book was one she had read many times before—the library at Rosings could boast very little variety, and nothing had been added to it in some years, Lady Catherine not approving of new literature—and could not hold her attention. She was therefore staring rather distantly at the page when her mother announced suddenly, "I declare, Anne, you are looking more poorly than ever."

Mr. Collins, desirous of agreeing with her Ladyship but unwilling to appear anything less than complimentary of her daughter, held his tongue and looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

"Why, mother," Miss Anne said, surprised by this unexpected attention, "I feel quite well."

"You do not look it. My daughter," Lady Catherine said loudly, and apparently to no one in particular, "is the bravest of creatures. Her health is in a most precarious state, and she is forever feeling feeble and weak, but she never complains."

"Indeed, your Ladyship," said Mr. Collins, relieved to be back on solid ground. "She is blessed with such a temperament, as will not allow her to be a burden to others, though of course she is the daughter of Sir Lewis and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and any decent person with a respect for rank and nobility would naturally be honored to render Miss de Bourgh any service in the interests of her health and comfort."

Miss Anne was quite immune to Mr. Collins' flattery by now, and said only "I do feel very well, your Ladyship. I am entirely without complaint."

"I declare you are exceedingly pale, and you look as though you are shaking, or feverish. Are your hands clammy?"

"I am quite well, mother," Miss Anne repeated, somewhat embarrassed, for Mrs. Collins had finished her song and Mr. Collins, again trapped between the desire to please and the desire to flatter, was silent once more.

"Perhaps Miss Anne ought to retire early this evening," Mrs. Jenkinson said, looking to Lady Catherine for confirmation.

"Indeed. Anne, I desire you will go upstairs this instant and go to bed. You are looking wholly unwell."

A treacherous impulse in Miss Anne threatened to overwhelm her, as she quite resented being sent up to bed like a child. Mrs. Jenkinson was rising and offering her arm and quietly asking if Miss de Bourgh required her shawl about her shoulders, or perhaps a blanket. Rather than protesting, Miss Anne rose to her feet and, taking Mrs. Jenkinson' arm with a weakness she did not feel, left the room in a quiet, submissive huff.

Health was a sensitive topic to Miss Anne, who had never been able to decipher exactly what was wrong with her. She knew that she was thinner than most girls, and of a decidedly paler complexion; she understood that, according to her mother, too much fresh air or exercise was trying on her weak frame, and would cause some unutterable damage. She did sometimes have irritating head-aches, which caused her to lie down in her dark bedroom for an hour or so before she felt well enough to rise again; but _illness_, the illness she remembered from her childhood, the illness that had bound her to her bed for nearly four months when she was just a girl—that was nothing but a specter to her now, a phantom of what once was. She had recovered from it, much to her mother's shock, for Lady Catherine was of a remarkably strong constitution and had never been truly ill, and believed that anyone who could be laid low by a fever must surely die from it. Since then, Miss Anne had frequently found herself feeling entirely healthy, though no-body ever believed her when she said so. As a lady of rank, Miss Anne found the world's disbelief in her to be infuriating; yet as a young woman who had lived her life under the reign of Lady Catherine, she was resigned to it.

Over the course of the next several days, Lady Catherine continued her unprecedented attention to her daughter's health, declaring that Anne looked thinner, weaker, and more exhausted; that she ate far less than usual, that she had dark circles beneath her eyes, that she moved more slowly, and that she seemed to require her shawl far more than was natural in this warm season. Mrs. Jenkinson was both terrified and ashamed to admit that she had noticed no such changes (but of course Lady Catherine must be allowed to know her daughter best out of any one), and Mr. Collins was so alarmed by her Ladyship's diagnosis that he took to speaking only in funerary whispers when Miss Anne was present, apparently believing her to be constantly on the verge of some great medical crisis. Only Mrs. Collins seemed unperturbed by these statements, and offered Miss Anne such kind, pitying smiles when Lady Catherine was not looking that Miss Anne was quite bewildered at the lady's impertinence. She herself felt no different, but out of long habit deferred to her mother's opinion, and sometimes admitted to pains when she did not have them, and a lack of appetite when she was hungry. By the end of two weeks, it was settled that Miss Anne could only be gravely ill, and the Rosings household was prepared to depart for the healing waters of Bath.


	2. Chapter 2

Lady Catherine had, for some twenty years, kept lodgings in Bath's Royal Crescent, though they were rarely used, and the fine furnishings had collected an unsurprising amount of dust in the time they had laid empty. Servants had been sent ahead of Lady Catherine's carriages to clean all corners of the apartments; yet her Ladyship still made it her first object, upon arriving in Bath, to order every thing cleaned again, before she would allow any of the household to make themselves comfortable.

Meanwhile, Miss Anne—whose mother would not allow her inside until all traces of dust had been eradicated—might have been seated comfortably in her barouche, gazing up at Bath in wonder. Indeed, she had been to the city only once, as a small child, while her father was still alive; for he had enjoyed both Bath and London, and all the varied entertainments offered by those towns. Lady Catherine, by contrast, held that her unwillingness to travel stemmed from concern for Anne and her indifferent health—of course, it was widely understood that the great lady's disinclination to leave her seat of honor at Rosings Park was the true cause of the family's isolation. Anne, therefore, might have been struck dumb by the beauty of Somerset's finest city; she might have pressed her face to the carriage window in childish amazement, or, once arriving in the Royal Crescent, might have emerged from her carriage to stand on the steps of the house, breathing in this alternate world that she had not seen in so long that she had mostly forgotten it.

However, Miss de Bourgh had caught a slight cold on the journey, and was so occupied by her watering eyes and sore throat that she could not have cared less for the scenery surrounding her. For all that she tired of being considered an invalid when she did not believe herself to be one, Miss de Bourgh was completely self-indulgent when troubled by any true illness, and always felt, when afflicted with even the slightest of ailments, that no-body had ever suffered so much as she.

It happened, therefore, that Miss Anne de Bourgh entered Bath without any interest at all in her new surroundings, what the future might hold, or even her mother's designs in bringing her there. She had no premonitions of glory or romance, or even any expectations at all, save a fine bed to rest on and a houseful of servants to serve her tea, tend her fire and bring her blankets when she requested them. She retired to her rooms as soon as her mother declared the house fit to be lived in, and took a long, peaceful nap, worriedly watched over by the attentive Mrs. Jenkinson.

* * *

Miss de Bourgh felt no better when she woke, nor the following day, and at the next morning's breakfast her ill health was subject to her Ladyship's disapproval: "I declare, Anne, you really are looking dreadful. I expect you have lain awake half the night?" (Anne, who had slept rather well, did not disagree.) "This is most displeasing; I had hoped to have your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam to dine to-day, you know. He is presently staying in Church Street."

"Indeed, mother?"

"And we have been in Bath a full day, and not seen him or anyone. I suppose the Season has not truly started just yet, and those who are here are in the shops and the public rooms. We will spend only the briefest amounts of time in the public rooms, Anne. Aside from your indifferent state of health, it is unfitting for ladies of our rank to be seen too much about. It is far more proper that those who wish to pay their respects shall visit us at our convenience, rather than approaching us at some vile dance or other."

"Yes, mother."

"And yet you have distracted me from my original point; your illness is most troublesome, and I will not allow it to continue."

"I had thought, mother," Anne said hesitantly, "that my health was the entire reason for our stay here in Bath; did we not come so I may take in the waters?"

Lady Catherine waved a bejeweled hand impatiently. "That is beside the point, Anne. You are entirely too ill to be of any use to me at this present time, and I may add that your current pallor and red nose are doing your looks no favors at all." She eyed her daughter critically. "There is a physician here, a very well-respected man by the name of Hart, who was recommended to me by Lady Dalrymple; you will see him today, and have him prescribe you a tonic or some such thing for that cold. I wish to have my nephew to dine by the week's end, without you sneezing into your soup. I am sure he is anxious to see us, as well; Colonel Fitzwilliam, as you know, is so fond of me."

It was settled, then, that Miss de Bourgh, attended by Mrs. Jenkinson and her lady's-maid, should take one of the small carriages to Dr. Hart's residence sometime after luncheon. The circumstances were highly unusual, and Lady Catherine was quite put out that her daughter should be forced to make the journey, rather than Dr. Hart, but a polite note sent round from the Hart household informed her that the good doctor was entirely too busy to make a house-call that afternoon, and would only be able to see Miss de Bourgh if she would be so good as to pay him the visit. Lady Catherine was forced to concede, considering that Dr. Hart was the only physician of any note in Bath, and her daughter was not _really_ at Death's door, and would certainly be able to survive a carriage ride. (Of course, her Ladyship was without any intention of stirring herself from the Royal Crescent where, she informed her daughter, she would spend most of the afternoon receiving visitors.)

Miss de Bourgh could not shake a distinct annoyance as she was handed into the barouche that afternoon. She had been brought up to feel all the honor of her rank, and though she scarcely ever listened anymore to Mr. Collins' simpering descriptions of her family's eminence, she had never stopped believing that everything he said was the truth. It was difficult to imagine being forced to _drive_ to her physician in Kent; Dr. Reed was constantly at her mother's beck and call, and she doubted he would ever dream of so inconveniencing her, especially whilst she suffered such a truly horrid cold.

Yet Anne's irritation was not so strong as to keep her from noticing the view on this second drive through Bath. She had now the benefit of a good night's rest behind her, rather than the ache and exhaustion of a long drive from Rosings Park, and was shortly able to look out the window with something approaching enthusiasm.

"It truly is a fine city," she said to Mrs. Jenkinson.

"It is indeed, Miss de Bourgh. You are entirely correct: it is the finest city that ever was seen. Are you quite warm enough? Perhaps you ought to sit away from the window; it might be better for your head-ache that way."

Anne ignored her and continued to admire. She could not remember the last time she had seen so many people in one place, her mother not deigning to frequent the public balls given occasionally in the parish, and the sight of ladies and gentlemen, children and nursemaids, servants and shopkeepers streaming from place to place about their daily business was almost overwhelming. There was a gaiety in the air that she was not sure her mother would approve of, and she felt a guilty thrill of pleasure as she watched the city hurry by.

* * *

Dr. Hart and his family lived in a house far more modest than the de Bourgh apartments, located in Widcombe. This doctor was, as Lady Catherine had mentioned, a highly respected man, who was known to have tended to several cousins of the royal family (and it was rumored that he had even once tended to the Prince himself, though of course he was discreet). He had spent most of his life in London, though he and his wife were fond of travelling, and had taken their family abroad on several occasions. After Mrs. Hart's death, Dr. Hart and his children had settled permanently in Bath, where he had the resource of a distinguished clientele, many of whom came to the city expressly to be healed and, if the Baths disappointed them, could easily afford his fees.

The five Hart children ranged in ages from twenty-six to thirteen. The eldest daughter had caused a slight scandal some years before by eloping with a Frenchman, and was now living what she described, in her letters to her family, as a "wildly charming" life in her husband's beloved Paris. Her siblings—the eldest son, a pair of eighteen-year-old twins, and the youngest daughter—were considered well mannered, good humored creatures of pleasant looks and (unlike their sister) sensible minds. The young ladies of the house were said to be as accomplished as one could expect for the daughters of a doctor (who are not, of course, held to the same standards of accomplishment as young ladies of the higher classes), and their brothers to be generally well read and of good conversation.

The Hart home was not large, but felt spacious; it was not decorated in the current style, or indeed any thing resembling it, but was pleasant in a comfortably domestic way, far removed from the lofty luxury to which Miss Anne was accustomed. The maid ushered her inside with several curtsies; she had greeted her master's wealthy and socially prominent patients before and, though she was hardly in awe of them, had always found that an excess of curtsying was looked upon more kindly than a deficiency of it. "Dr. Hart hopes it would not be too inconvenient for you to wait in his study; he is currently tending to another patient, but will be available very shortly. May I fetch you some tea, while you are waiting?"

Miss de Bourgh stared at her. The idea of waiting for the physician was entirely foreign to her, even more foreign than the idea of being forced to call on him, and she was summoning up a decent outrage when Mrs. Jenkinson stepped forward:

"Does Dr. Hart understand who this lady is?" she demanded of the maid, with all the fury her own slightly superior social position allowed. "Miss de Bourgh is the daughter of _Lady Catherine de Bourgh_ of _Rosings Park_, and therefore the descendant of a long and eminent line. She is not accustomed to _waiting_—"

"I do apologize, ma'am," the maid returned coolly, addressing herself to Miss Anne. "The doctor realizes the circumstances are unorthodox. However, he is prodigious busy today, as the Season is beginning and several of his regular patients are returning to Bath. He hopes that you will make yourself comfortable in the meantime, and he will join you in his study as soon as possible," she repeated, and added another curtsy for good measure.

Mrs. Jenkinson opened her mouth again, but Anne, sensing that, somehow, neither she nor her companion were entirely in control of the situation, silenced her with a glance. "I will wait," she stated as calmly as possible, though her mind was reeling in confusion. Had she truly lost an argument to a mere maid, without even opening her mouth? It was, as her mother would say, almost too much to be borne.

The mere maid curtsied again and led them to the doctor's study, a room dominated by several full bookshelves and a large oak desk. Like the rest of the home, the room was far from fashionable but quite comfortable all the same. Miss Anne settled herself on one of the chairs facing the desk; her loyal attendants remained standing at her shoulders.

"How distressing it must be, Miss de Bourgh, for a lady of your rank," Mrs. Jenkinson said in a low voice, "to see a tradesman so completely disregarding the basic courtesies that are due members of the titled class. I am quite sure Lady Catherine will not like to hear of this."

"Indeed, I am sure she won't," Anne agreed, Mrs. Jenkinson's ire serving to re-kindle her own. "She will consider this man impertinent, as do I; I am quite prepared to take my leave." She sneezed angrily into her handkerchief. There was no need for her to follow this statement with any other action; both she and Mrs. Jenkinson knew that they would not be taking any leave until Dr. Hart had seen Miss de Bourgh, as Lady Catherine had ordered.

It was fortunate, therefore, that Dr. Hart entered at that moment. He was a fine-looking man of perhaps fifty, with graying hair and a cheerful look about him. He greeted them immediately with a low bow that was quite proper and in keeping with what was due; Anne felt her indignation begin to ebb.

"My sincerest apologies, Miss de Bourgh," he began. "I had no desire to keep you waiting, but one of my regular patients has kept me longer than I expected; a touch of the gout, I'm afraid, though of course he is one of those who for-ever thinks there is something terrible wrong with him." He smiled. Anne, who was not unacquainted with this form of hypochondria, did not return the smile. "I must thank you, also, for paying me the compliment of your visit; how distressed I was to think that you should be so inconvenienced, but of course I am so dreadfully busy these days that I would be quite unable to pay you a house-call for nearly a week. How do you find the Royal Crescent, by the way?"

"It is very pleasant," Anne said stiffly.

"And Bath? Have you been out much in the city at all?"

"I have not. We arrived only the day before yesterday."

"Miss de Bourgh has been rather too ill for sight-seeing, sir," Mrs. Jenkinson broke in reproachfully.

"Of course, of course. And I assume you are her nurse?"

Introductions were made between the two and, with no further delay, the doctor began his examination. Anne, who was quite accustomed to these proceedings, paid rather little attention; she had had her temperature checked, her eyes and ears and throat examined, her pulse measured, her symptoms described (by either her mother or Mrs. Jenkinson) too many times to count.

She looked about her in boredom. The bookshelves were filled with medical books with obscure-sounding titles, some of which were in different languages—nothing she had any interest in. There were a few watercolors on the wall, rather pretty ones, which she supposed must have been done by one of Dr. Hart's daughters, but they could hardly compare to the fine portraits and landscapes that adorned the halls of Rosings Park. A Japanese screen stood near the fireplace, but Anne had very little appreciation for ethnic art, so she paid it little mind. The windows offered a pleasant view of the street below, and it was there that she directed her attention while Mrs. Jenkinson described Miss de Bourgh's headaches, throat pains, watering eyes and dripping nose in exaggerated and pitiful-sounding detail.

Anne was startled, therefore, when the door to the study was flung open suddenly with a loud bang, and a young woman rushed in, waving a piece of paper excitedly.

"Father," she exclaimed, "A letter from Helena, and you'll never—oh, I do apologize!" She stopped quickly and colored. "I didn't—Sarah didn't say—Forgive me!" She curtsied hurriedly and was gone as suddenly as she had come. Anne glanced at Mrs. Jenkinson, whose face could scarce have expressed more disapproval.

"Miss Rosamond, my daughter," the doctor explained, sounding amused. "You must excuse her; she has been most impatient for a letter from her sister. Miss de Bourgh," he went on, "you are very fortunate in that there is nothing wrong with you other than a mild cold, mostly likely due to your recent journey. I can prescribe you a tonic that may offer you some relief, but indeed I believe you would be best served with rest and quiet, and perhaps a visit to the Baths. Tea with honey will certainly ease your throat pains, and I will be very surprised if your other symptoms have not disappeared, or at least lessened considerably, within a few days' time."

It was difficult to gauge the effect these tidings had on Miss de Bourgh. Her face betrayed very little emotion indeed; she merely gave the doctor one stiff nod and rose to leave. Inwardly, however, she was experiencing the most extraordinary feeling of relief that she could possibly have imagined; it was as though a death sentence had been lifted from her shoulders.

How liberating, for a young woman of four-and-twenty, who has felt perfectly healthy for much of her life but been made to understand, by her physician, her family, and even her servants, that she is a weak, fragile, invalid creature—how liberating for this young woman to hear at last that there is _nothing wrong with her_ that cannot be resolved with rest and quiet, and perhaps a visit to the Baths. It was the first time any body worth listening to had voiced Anne's own opinions about her health, and she was not entirely certain whether she ought to believe him—perhaps there was some symptom he had missed that would point him to the same conclusions her mother had been drawing about her for so long. Yet he did look very sure of himself, and, Anne reminded herself, he was no mere country doctor like her physician in Kent; he had tended people even wealthier and better connected than she, and did that not lend Dr. Hart a certain credibility? Though of course she did disagree with his estimation of her cold as a_ mild_ one, for indeed it was most unpleasant and she did not think anyone could ever have had a cold worse than hers. Yet the rest of it… Miss Anne was not one of those expressive young ladies who shows the world _more_ than she feels, whether in joy or sadness; yet she felt she could have thrown her arms about Dr. Hart with very little further provocation.

Mrs. Jenkinson, by contrast, was not so thankful to the good doctor for his diagnosis. Seeing that her lady was not planning on defending herself, the good woman took matters into her own extremely loyal hands.

"Dr. Hart," she said in a low voice, "you must not be so cruel, nor so misleading, as to allow Miss de Bourgh to think that there is _nothing_ wrong with her. Why, Miss de Bourgh has suffered from chronic illness since childhood, which has robbed her of many enjoyments and, as her mother says, of many years of her life; and though she is the most obliging young lady, and never complains, it is plain to see that she is not _entirely_ well, as you seem to suggest. Look only at her pale cheeks, her red-rimmed eyes—her symptoms point unmistakably to the contrary."

"Indeed, Mrs. Jenkinson," Dr. Hart replied gravely, "I do not suggest that Miss de Bourgh is _entirely_ well. As I say, she is presently suffering from a slight cold, which is no doubt extremely trying, and certainly explains the symptoms you have described." He chose not to address Mrs. Jenkinson's charge of chronic illness, but Anne thought she saw his eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch. Her heart swelled again; he did, indeed, seem very certain that it was a cold and nothing more.

Mrs. Jenkinson was clearly unsatisfied with this response, but could think of no way to counter it, and turned instead to Miss de Bourgh, her face a mask of pity and displeasure. The young lady simply requested the tonic Dr. Hart had referred to, which would surely satisfy her mother's demand for a cure.

It was a subdued party, therefore, that Dr. Hart escorted into the vestibule: Mrs. Jenkinson, silently furious at the man's clear incompetence; Miss de Bourgh, silently rejoicing at his unprecedented diagnosis; and the lady's-maid, entirely silent, as a lady's-maid ought to be. The late afternoon sun was filtering through the large windows into the home, and somewhere in the house someone was playing the pianoforte. Anne felt she had never been in so pleasant a place, though she could not tell why the Hart house struck her so, as they had sun and windows and pianofortes a-plenty at Rosings Park. She bid the doctor good-bye with a slight curtsy, he responded with a much deeper bow, and Miss Anne was turning to leave when a young man hurriedly entered the house through the same door, stumbling almost directly into her.

"I say!" he exclaimed loudly, stepping back. "I do apologize, madam—my own fault, of course." He bowed low.

"As he has very nearly caused you physical harm, Miss de Bourgh," Dr. Hart said, "you must be allowed to know that this clumsy gentleman is Theodore Hart, my eldest son. I am sure," he added, smiling, "that you will not be hard-pressed to find some family resemblance between his inelegant manners and those of his sister, whom you met earlier." (Mrs. Jenkinson let out a sniff, perhaps insinuating that she found Dr. Hart's words more accurate than amusing.)

Miss Anne curtsied; Mr. Hart bowed again. Fair-haired with broad features, he was not quite handsome; yet there was something pleasing in his looks, and he possessed the same air of cheerfulness as Dr. Hart. Anne estimated him to be perhaps a year or two her senior—around Mr. Darcy's age, she thought, though there was little else about him that could be compared to Mr. Darcy.

"I apologize again, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said. "And though I am not sure how my sister has impressed her poor breeding upon you, I do hope that the two of us have not contrived to frighten you away from Hart House for-ever."

Anne had never been gifted at conversation, and was even less talented at repartee, never having had the opportunity for much practice in either; therefore, she could think of no response to Mr. Hart's words but to smile _very_ slightly and take her leave, attendants in tow.

* * *

Mrs. Jenkinson would have been quite content to spend the entire drive to the Royal Crescent abusing the Hart family. She considered the doctor inept and impertinent, his children improper and graceless, the house cheaply furnished and completely without charm; she was certain Miss de Bourgh had felt most uncomfortable while there and had been ill treated by everyone she had come in contact with at Hart House; and, Mrs. Jenkinson's most damning critique of all, she was certain Lady Catherine would not like to hear any of what she had to say about their visit, nor would she allow her daughter to be treated by Dr. Hart again—"for there must be better physicians in Bath," she exclaimed, "if one may even take the liberty of calling Dr. Hart a physician; a common surgeon, I call him, without an ounce of true medical knowledge. I am sure Lady Catherine can find you a more suitable doctor, Miss de Bourgh," she added soothingly, "for she is so very resourceful, and knows every-body."

It was this last statement that drew Anne from her reflections, for till now she had been paying very little attention. She had her mother's skill for ignoring her inferiors when they were not saying what she cared to hear, and indeed Mrs. Jenkinson's condemnation was almost directly opposite to Anne's own feelings. She had almost enjoyed her time at Hart House, as much as she ever enjoyed any thing; she almost liked Dr. Hart, or at least preferred him to Dr. Reed in Kent, who had always tended to her with grave sighs and un-encouraging shakes of the head. It was for this reason that Miss Anne silenced her nurse and requested that she, rather than Mrs. Jenkinson, be allowed to make the report of Dr. Hart to her Ladyship.

"For it is _my_ opinion that matters, as I am the one in need of a physician," she said firmly. Mrs. Jenkinson, who rather suspected that Miss de Bourgh was not quite as outraged by her treatment at Hart House as she ought to be, valiantly hid her reluctance as much as she was able and conceded to her mistress.

It does not signify, at any rate, she thought, for we all know that it is Lady Catherine's opinion that matters, and not any body else's.

* * *

Quick history lesson: Although Mrs. Jenkinson refers to Dr. Hart as a "tradesman", she is being more petty than accurate—Dr. Hart, as a doctor, is not a tradesman or commoner, but is not on the same social level as, say, the Darcys. Dr. Hart would be something like Mr. Collins or Elizabeth's lawyer uncles (one of whom, Caroline Bingley would like to remind us all, lives in _Cheapside_), in that he has a "real" job and actually goes to work every day. He is not "landed"—doesn't own land, other than his house—and does not make an income from tenants and business investments, as Mr. Darcy does. Dr. Hart is a gentleman, but not gentry, because he works for a living. He doesn't move in the same circles as Mr. Darcy, but probably knows a few of the same people as Mr. Bennet, because after all the Bennets aren't rich. And, of course, the Harts are most definitely socially inferior to the de Bourghs, who are titled nobility and, as we say in these parts, old money. (Even if Sir Lewis was only a baronet, I imagine Lady Catherine would maintain that it's better than no title at all!) Mrs. Jenkinson, as a lady's nurse/paid companion, is closer to the servant class than Dr. Hart (and would have been perfectly aware of this).

Mrs. Jenkinson also describes Dr. Hart as a "common surgeon"—an insult, since Dr. Hart's status as a physician means he has an actual medical education and training. The term "surgeon" typically referred, at this time, to "self-taught" (haha), inept, dime-a-dozen quacks who preyed on the gullible and superstitious, offered little in the way of real medicine, and mostly just liked cutting things off of people (for a fee, of course). However, there were some 18th century surgeons who deserved the title, such as John Hunter, who invented the tracheotomy.

For a better idea of the social strata, check out the chart here (remove the spaces): http :// janeaustensworld. wordpress. com/ 2008/01/ 20/ social-classes-in-england-1814/


	3. Chapter 3

Lady Catherine desired to know all that she could about her daughter's visit to Dr. Hart. For the first time in her life, Miss Anne found herself truly resistant, rather than merely reluctant, to her mother's wishes; and though this resistance was not strong, she still found herself answering as vaguely and simply as possible.

It was true that, had Lady Catherine been present, Dr. Hart would have been declared completely unacceptable. The particulars of the appointment would certainly secure her Ladyship's disapproval, and so Miss Anne mentioned only that she found Dr. Hart an intelligent man, very sure of himself, who had very properly apologized several times for forcing her to make the journey.

"If I may have a say in the matter, mother," she finished meekly, "I should prefer to be seen only by Dr. Hart while in Bath, rather than any other physician."

Lady Catherine was silent for a time, scrutinizing her daughter carefully, before she consented. It was something of a relief to her Ladyship, though she would not have admitted it; Lady Dalrymple had been most complimentary of the doctor—had even mentioned that he was known to have served the Royal Family more than once—and there was no other doctor in Bath with such a sterling reputation. In Kent, it was all well and good for Miss de Bourgh to be treated by a local physician, but here in Bath, among Society, it must be generally known that she was treated only by the best.

And so it was settled that Miss de Bourgh was to become a regular patient of Dr. Hart. Mrs. Jenkinson, as she had promised her young lady, withheld her objections, and Lady Catherine—who had a rather low opinion of most of her employees, and of Mrs. Jenkinson in particular—never thought to ask her.

The rest of the week passed quickly. Anne, as per the doctor's orders, took a great deal of rest, drank a great deal of tea, and paid two or three visits to the Roman Baths, although the crowds there quite discomfited her. She was not accustomed to crowds, and estimated it might well be another week before she could summon the courage to brave the Grand Pump Room itself. Nonetheless, Anne found Dr. Hart's instructions very useful, and was feeling quite herself within a few days, as he had predicted.

Lady Catherine, meanwhile, was engaged in receiving visitors and even (on rare but important occasions) paying one or two visits herself. Once her health had sufficiently returned, Miss Anne was expected to form a part of these social calls, and spent three afternoons in a row in the dark, opulent drawing room at the Royal Crescent. Lady Catherine had rarely stirred from Kent since the death of her husband, and her time in Bath was now much taken up in reconnecting with old friends and distant relations, many of whom had not seen her in some years. She was equally occupied in criticizing these connexions as soon as they left her company (or, if their station and circumstance was not too high, to their very faces), for no-body could play, draw, sing, read, dress, sew, or converse in a manner that met with her complete satisfaction; no-body could ever do anything that Lady Catherine de Bourgh should not have been able to do better. Nevertheless, even she could not deny that they were all of excellent family (or else they should not be allowed to darken her Ladyship's doorstep), and therefore made desirable connexions for herself and her daughter.

Miss Anne did not particularly enjoy these calls, though she was accustomed to them, having spent many similar afternoons and evenings sitting with the Collinses from Hunsford, or with various ladies of the parish who were always glad of Lady Catherine's advice. Anne was of a naturally quiet disposition, which in a lesser young lady would have been called "shy", but she did not believe herself unsociable. Indeed, she was certain she could have conversed very well if she were ever allowed to speak—but that was Lady Catherine's duty. Generally, Miss Anne was presented to the visitor first thing, and was exclaimed over as such a well-looking young lady, so much grown since the visitor had seen her last; she was then relegated to Lady Catherine's shadow for the rest of the visit.

Here in Bath, her mother's visitors frequently brought along their own daughters and nieces, who were generally of Anne's age or younger. The young ladies were always confidently considered by the elder ones to be fast friends, though they rarely exchanged more than a few distantly polite remarks on the weather. The younger ladies among them generally progressed then to the balls and parties they had been to, the scenes at the Pump Room and Assembly Rooms they had witnessed, and what persons of interest they had seen out and about in Bath; but Anne had not yet been to any of these places, and was scarcely acquainted with any one, and so they soon fell silent for the remainder of the half-hour. Anne's particular dread were the occasions when more than one of these merry girls came together, for they always seemed to be in each other's confidence, and hardly included Anne at all. She often wondered why her nerve always seemed to fail her at such moments.

It was on Sunday that the most looked-for visit of the week took place. Colonel Fitzwilliam was invited to dine, and promptly accepted, with gentlemanly deference to his noble aunt and her daughter. Lady Catherine, who had been quite put out that her nephew had not called earlier, was nonetheless appeased by the prospect of his coming. "It will be such a joy for him, Anne," she remarked, "for he really is very fond of me, and as for myself, I suppose that if I had had a son, I should have liked him to be something like dear Fitzwilliam." (Anne had heard her mother make this same comment several times in reference to Mr. Darcy; however, given that gentleman's recent unfortunate marriage, she was not surprised to hear Fitzwilliam's name substituted in this instance.)

For her own part, Miss Anne found herself looking forward to this visit rather more than to the others they had received. She was not particularly close to Colonel Fitzwilliam, but she liked him; he was a good-humored gentleman who, when he visited, had always made at least some attempt to engage her in conversation, though he was most often interrupted by Lady Catherine, who could allow no conversation that did not include her to take place in her drawing room. He was far less reserved than Mr. Darcy, though he had not Mr. Darcy's eminence, being only the second son of an Earl. His manners were agreeable, his countenance pleasing and, most importantly, Anne was already acquainted with him, and would suffer none of the awkwardness of forming a new acquaintance, which had plagued her so much this week.

And so Sunday came; a fine dinner was ordered, the ladies of the house arranged themselves in their silks and jewels, Miss Anne's screen and cashmere shawl were placed within strategic distance (though Miss Anne thought secretly, with a hint of defiance, that she should have little use for them) and Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived, looking quite fine in his uniform.

"My dear Fitzwilliam," Lady Catherine drawled, accepting her kiss. "We have been awaiting your visit these six days at least; what have you been doing with yourself?"

"I do apologize, madam, for not having come to see you earlier; I was unexpectedly summoned to London by my mother, and returned only yesterday."

"All is well, I hope?" Lady Catherine gave the gentleman no time to respond, as she immediately continued, "And does not Miss Anne look very charming this evening?"

"Indeed, milady, very charming." Colonel Fitzwilliam gave Miss Anne a very gracious bow and a very pleasant smile. She smiled back; but it was too late, as Colonel Fitzwilliam's attention had already been recalled by her Ladyship.

"Her health has never been what it should, of course, but I daresay the air here has improved her; she looks almost well, these days. A slight cold earlier in the week, but she has been seen by a physician here—Dr. Hart, you know, who has such a _very_ superb reputation, and was once the official physician of all the Royal Family; I daresay he is one of the finest physicians in Britain, from all I've heard—at any rate, _Anne_ is one of his _regular_ patients now, and he has quite cured her of her cold. It is only her regular complaints which trouble her now, and not to their usual degree. We are all much obliged to him."

"Then I am obliged to him as well," Colonel Fitzwilliam said politely, giving Anne another smile. This time she returned it as quickly as she could, and was gratified to know that he had seen it, before he spoke again:

"And how do you find Bath, Lady Catherine?"

"It is nothing to Kent, of course; I much prefer the gardens and forests of Rosings Park to all of the noise here. I have never been partial to cities. But of course we have seen a great many people since we have been here—or should I say, a great many people have seen us, for of course we are generally the ones being called on."

"Have you walked out much in Bath? There are a great many fine parks and shops, and of course the Pump Room and Assembly Rooms to visit."

"Certainly not; I should think it most unbecoming, for a lady of my rank to be seen so much out in public."

"I must disagree, your Ladyship; I have seen your friend Lady Dalrymple _and_ her daughters sitting in the Pump Room, and Lady Wentworth has been seen at three private balls, and one public, since she arrived a fortnight ago. I cannot think their conduct at all improper. If anything, it is very wise, for one cannot expect the world to be always coming to visit."

He smiled. Lady Catherine, on the other hand, looked rather stunned. Colonel Fitzwilliam had always been of an easy temperament, willing to agree with (or, perhaps, humor) his aunt, and had rarely disagreed with her on any thing. Any defiance had typically been left to Mr. Darcy, and even that was quite rare. Miss Anne thought suddenly that Colonel Fitzwilliam's words reminded her of no one so much as Elizabeth Bennet; Lady Catherine evidently thought so as well, for she said frostily:

"You have seen the Darcys recently, I suppose?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam's eyebrows raised fractionally, but he replied easily, "The last time I saw Mr. and Mrs. Darcy was at their wedding, in Hertfordshire."

"A very modest ceremony, I imagine," Lady Catherine sniffed.

"A simple ceremony, but, I daresay, with real elegance."

Lady Catherine sniffed again. She seemed to be on the verge of saying more, yet her awareness of Colonel Fitzwilliam's friendship with his cousin, and his genial affection for that cousin's wife (country upstart though she was), seemed to be halting her; she could not be certain of her nephew's agreement on the matter of Mr. Darcy's marriage, and it must have been this reflection which caused her to change tacks:

"I should hope _you_ would not settle for such a wedding." Nor such a bride, was the implication, but it went unaddressed.

"I have not planned my wedding to any great degree," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, with some amusement; "I have always thought that task best left to the lady."

Lady Catherine squinted at him for a moment, before changing the subject again.

"And have you been to a great many balls and parties here in Bath?" she asked, with some distaste.

"Only one or two; as I say, my mother called me to London some days ago, and I have only just returned. However, the parties I have attended have been very enjoyable; there are a great many interesting people currently in Bath."

Lady Catherine shared her opinions (few of them favorable) upon this declaration for several more minutes, before they proceeded in to dine. Miss Anne was pleasantly surprised that her cousin offered his arm to her, rather than to her mother, and was even more surprised, though rather disappointed, when he told her that this gallantry was by the Lady's orders.

"However, that does not mean it is more of a duty than a pleasure," he said kindly, and Miss Anne felt her spirits restored.

Dinner was a quiet affair: the first moments were spent silently as all the party focused on eating, and conversation was not revived until some minutes after they had sat down, when Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked that the weather had been uncommonly fine lately.

"Has it? I have hardly left the house; I have been so overrun with visitors. There are a great many people here who desire to see me," Lady Catherine said, rather smugly. "Anne has been out more than I have; she went to the Roman Baths only four days ago."

"Did you indeed, Miss Anne? And how did you find them?"

Anne was caught quite off-guard at this direct address, and could say only "Very pleasant," before her mother cut in again.

"I suppose the weather here must be supposed to be fine when it is only fair; one has not the true natural beauty that the weather affords in places like Kent. It is, you know, the garden of England."

Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, obligingly, that he did indeed consider Kent, and particularly Rosings Park, one of the most beautiful spots he had ever visited. Lady Catherine, still smarting from his earlier disagreement with her, was somewhat placated by this simple acquiescence, and conversation proceeded in an agreeable vein. Her Ladyship dominated, of course, and made a point of avoiding all mention of the Darcys, the Bennets, Pemberley, Hertfordshire, Derbyshire and weddings for the remainder of the evening; and on several occasions Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke to Miss Anne directly, either to ask her a question or to apply for her opinion. At first nonplussed by this unusual attention, Anne slowly grew more easy and even rather appreciative. At one point, to her surprise, she and her cousin held almost an entire conversation together before Lady Catherine interrupted them; to Anne, it seemed as though her Ladyship had been holding her tongue for quite as long as she could bear.

"Well, Anne," said Lady Catherine, as soon as the door had closed on her nephew, "I hope you have not found your cousin much changed since we saw him in the spring."

"No, indeed, your Ladyship," Anne replied, more readily than she otherwise might have.

"He is grown more impertinent, I believe—no doubt the influence of Elizabeth Bennet and all her contemptuous friends. Yet I daresay he can be recovered: after all, Miss Bennet is at Pemberley now, and Fitzwilliam is here in Bath."

Miss Anne was not entirely sure what her mother meant by this statement, and ventured no reply. The room was silent for some minutes before Lady Catherine spoke again.

"You have not requested your shawl once this evening, Anne."

"I have not, mother."

"Are you warm enough?"

"I am quite comfortable, your Ladyship."

"Hmm." Lady Catherine appeared to consider this statement for some time. Then:

"I desire you will go to the Pump Room tomorrow, Anne."

"Your Ladyship?" Anne raised her head. "I had thought we were not to spend much time in the public rooms."

"We are not to spend _much_ time there, Anne, but we shall certainly spend _some_ time there. One cannot be in Bath without making an appearance at these places. You will go tomorrow."

"Are you not to accompany me, mother?" Anne dared to ask.

"I am not," Lady Catherine said severely. "I have no taste for promenading."

Nothing more was said on the subject, and mother and daughter retired very soon after.

* * *

As has been mentioned before in this narrative, Miss Anne de Bourgh had not yet made her entrance at the Grand Pump Room. She had taken in the waters for their health benefits only, and though she understood the water in the Pump Room to be quite as invigorating as that of the Roman Baths, it was the other expectations of the Pump Room that worried her. Like her mother, Anne had no taste for promenading; neither had she any taste for meeting acquaintances and conversing with them for half an hour at a time. She found herself quite discomfited enough at the idea of doing so in her own home, that the idea of doing so in a public place, with all eyes upon her (as she knew they would be, considering her position and family) made her quite uneasy.

Yet Lady Catherine's orders must be obeyed, and so Miss Anne, with Mrs. Jenkinson in tow, were to set out for the Pump Room the next morning—not too early, for it would not do to be the first ones there, but not too late, for Mrs. Jenkinson (though privately anxious to experience the famous Pump Room herself) was fearful that the afternoon crush would be entirely too much for her delicate mistress. Miss Anne privately agreed with her, and slept rather ill that night.

Upon rising in the morning, however, Anne found she was not so nervous as she feared. The ease with which she had managed to speak with Colonel Fitzwilliam the previous evening rested lightly on the young lady's heart, and she wondered if the Pump Room could indeed be as daunting as she had imagined. After all, she was the daughter of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, and the heiress of Rosings Park; surely she was equal to the challenge of walking about in a room for an hour or so. Besides, she thought privately, it was quite likely that Colonel Fitzwilliam would be there, and she thought she should have no difficulty promenading with him.

She experienced a slight resurgence of nerves when disembarking before the grand doors; Anne could hear music and voices within, and nearly asked Mrs. Jenkinson if she did not think they ought to come back another day, when it was not so crowded. However, before she could speak a word, she was overtaken by a group of ladies who made eagerly for the doors, carrying Anne and her companion inside right along with them.

"It is not nearly so full as I feared, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson remarked, once they had disengaged themselves from the small crowd of ladies. Then, quite unexpectedly, she sighed "Is it not lovely?"

The room was large and lofty, with very tall windows. A band of musicians was situated in the alcove, playing some sweet, pleasant tune that Anne (who had very little knowledge of music) did not recognize, but enjoyed. Beneath the music, the room hummed gently with the murmur of conversation and the swishing of skirts and petticoats. There were people everywhere, though it was far from a crush: some groups of ladies and gentlemen were seated, chattering amiably and listening to the music, while others paraded up and down the room in twos and threes, peering intently at every one else. Anne saw a few of them glance her way, and immediately blushed—though of course she had expected attention, being Miss Anne de Bourgh.

"Should you prefer to sit, ma'am, or to take a turn about the room?" Mrs. Jenkinson asked, her eyes roving about the place quite eagerly.

"I believe I will take a turn," Anne replied. She stepped forward, finding a break in the procession large enough to fit both herself and her companion, and they promenaded up toward one end of the room and down toward the other.

As they walked, Miss Anne was quite discomfited to discover that there was no body in the room with whom she could meet. Colonel Fitzwilliam was entirely absent, as were all of the ladies who had been paying such courteous visits to her mother over the past week; she knew no one. To Anne's eyes, it suddenly appeared as though everyone else in the room was there with all of their particular friends and intimate acquaintances; she could see no body else walking up and down so foolishly with no one but their nurse for company. Anne felt herself flush hotly and turned her face away from Mrs. Jenkinson, so that lady would not think her stricken with a sudden fever and raise an alarm.

They walked up and down a few more times without conversation. Anne kept her eyes on the entrance, hoping that somebody she recognized would come in, to no avail. Mrs. Jenkinson, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, and was actively engaged in studying every body else in the room. Finally, Anne turned to her and requested that they sit.

"Of course, ma'am," Mrs. Jenkinson said, though she seemed slightly disappointed. Indeed, no sooner had they found a seat than Mrs. Jenkinson rose to her feet again and insisted that she be allowed to fetch a cup of mineral water for Miss de Bourgh.

"That is why we are here, ma'am, after all," the nurse maintained, though both ladies knew that that was not the case—no body went to the Grand Pump Room for the sole purpose of drinking the water. Nonetheless, Anne consented and Mrs. Jenkinson vanished into the crowd with a curtsy.

Miss Anne realized her mistake almost immediately. It was one thing to have only one's paid companion for company at the Pump Room; it was quite another thing, quite a worse thing, to have no one at all. There are few situations more awkward than that of being completely alone in a room full of people who are together, and Miss Anne was exceedingly conscious of every body else's happy conversation and laughter. The empty seats around her seemed quite vast, and she was certain that everyone else must realize how very alone she was. Face flushed with embarrassment, she nonetheless held her head high and stared around the room, avoiding other glances (some of them, she fancied, quite pitying). She imagined her mother would have been completely unbowed by the circumstances; but then, her mother was likely acquainted with all of the most eminent persons currently in the room, and therefore should never have been alone in the first place. Perhaps it was better, she reflected—perhaps it was most fitting that Miss de Bourgh of Rosings Park should appear most exclusive in her acquaintances. Yet no one else seemed to think her so much exclusive as lonely, and Anne felt very horribly self-conscious; she began to wish, indeed, that she were back in Kent, seated in one of Rosings' fine gardens, where no body would notice if she was alone.

A young lady, flanked by two gentlemen, sat down quite near her. Anne, glancing at her, thought she looked somehow familiar; it took some moments before Anne realized that she was Dr. Hart's daughter (the name escaped her), who had so brusquely interrupted her appointment with the doctor only a few days before. One of the gentlemen accompanying the young lady stood momentarily with his back to Anne, but as he turned to sit she recognized him as Theodore Hart (his name, oddly, did not escape her), who had bumped into her as she left Hart House.

Mr. Hart happened to glance at Anne, and catch her eye; he nodded politely, and she returned his notice with a very slight bow of her own head. She then turned back to watching the crowd, her heart thumping quite hard in her chest.

Miss Anne's dilemma was as follows: she was exceedingly lonely sitting by herself, and conscious that every body else must be aware of her loneliness; here had just entered a gentleman and lady with whom she could claim an acquaintance, however slight. Yet she was rather painfully aware that the Harts, though their father was a gentleman and a respected physician, were far from being her social equals; she was certain Lady Catherine would disapprove of her granting them any notice at all, much less engaging them in conversation. Such a course of action would disastrously blur the distinction between the classes, and may give the Harts ideas above their station, which would of course be intolerable.

Nonetheless, Anne reflected, perhaps her notice and condescension could improve them and their manners, as the Collinses were improved by the patronage of Lady Catherine. Indeed, Mr. Collins was nothing but a country clergyman, yet he and his wife dined often at Rosings, and spent many of their evenings there. Surely, if such a thing was allowable, there could be no harm in Miss de Bourgh's deigning to make idle conversation with Mr. and Miss Hart for half an hour or so.

Her mind made up, Anne turned again toward Mr. Hart, and caught his eye. This time, she accompanied her nod with the most elegant greeting she knew; he responded very courteously, and inquired after her health, and a conversation was begun.

"I am sure, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said solemnly, "that you cannot have forgotten my foolish sister Miss Rosamond. My father informs me that she burst upon you in his study, entirely without warning, shouting about letters from our Parisian sister, and was only restrained with great force."

Miss Hart colored slightly, but laughed; Miss de Bourgh allowed herself a small smile and, with all the condescension her rank afforded her, insisted that Mr. Hart's foolish sister was quite forgiven, while implying that she had behaved very foolishly indeed.

Anne was rather put out, now that she was given the opportunity to see Miss Rosamond at her leisure, to find her a very pretty girl, with fair hair like her brother's, a sweet smile, and a fine complexion; for Miss Anne was not the sort of young lady who can readily appreciate beauty in other females without a certain amount of jealousy. Yet she was satisfied, after a minute's further reflection, to discern that Miss Hart lacked the aristocratic bearing and noble features that marked Anne herself as a member of the higher class—and besides that, Miss Hart's eyes were entirely too large for her face, and she was a full two inches shorter than Anne, and her chin was rather weak.

"And this gentleman," Mr. Hart continued teasingly, "must be so familiar to you, from looking at us, that you can have no doubt of who he is."

The third member of the party, indicated by Mr. Hart, was quite young and, indeed, very much like the other two. "He is your brother," Miss Anne pronounced after a moment, and was rewarded with nearly identical smiles from all three.

"Mr. Robert Hart," Mr. Hart announced. "And he is more than merely our _brother_, Miss de Bourgh; he and Miss Rosamond are indeed very exotic, for they are twins." The statement was made so grandly, yet with such a note of good humor, that Anne could not help but smile, though she quickly tried to suppress it; it would not do to encourage Mr. Hart in his impertinence.

"Have you been long in Bath, Miss de Bourgh?" Miss Rosamond inquired politely.

"Indeed, only a week."

"And have you enjoyed it?"

"It is a very beautiful city," Anne said diplomatically, "though I have not been out much in it; this is the first time I have visited the Pump Room."

She expected Miss Hart, like the other young ladies she had conversed with over the past week, to launch immediately into an acclamation of Bath and its many entertainments, as well as long lists of the people she had seen and met and danced with; but Miss Hart said only, with a smile, "There are some very charming walks near here; when your health has returned fully, you must be certain to explore some of them."

"Where do you come from, Miss de Bourgh?" Mr. Robert Hart asked.

"From Rosings Park," Anne replied smugly; then, registering with some surprise that the three seemed quite unimpressed, added, "In Kent. It is a very well-known estate there."

"Is it _very_ beautiful there?" Miss Rosamond asked, quite unexpectedly and, Anne imagined, rather wistfully. "I've so often heard Kent called the Garden of England; I've always wondered what exactly that means."

"I imagine it means exactly what it sounds like," Mr. Robert replied teasingly.

"A garden," Miss Rosamond returned primly, "sounds very green, and that tells us precisely nothing, for _most_ of England is green. If that is what it means to be the garden of England, then one could argue that all of England is a garden—outside of Bath and London and the other cities, of course."

"You are being very literal, and I hardly think it applies to the present argument."

"If I were being literal, I would argue that Kent must be entirely rows of planted flowers and vegetables and apple-trees, for that is what a garden is _literally_."

"I had heard," Anne ventured, "that twins were always meant to agree."

"Whoever told you that is mistaken indeed," Mr. Hart said drily, "for these twins can hardly ever seem to agree on any thing, unless it be for some nefarious purpose." Yet he regarded them with a fondness that belied his words.

"But Miss de Bourgh," Miss Hart said, returning apologetically to the conversation, "you must tell us about Kent; we are most especially interested, for while Theo lived in London while he was very young, and has travelled, Robert and I have hardly been any place besides Bath."

Miss de Bourgh found herself quite willing to indulge this request, and spent the next few minutes describing Kent, and Rosings specifically, to her audience. She could not say if they were indeed especially interested, but their faces, particularly Miss Hart's, were very convincingly rapt with attention, and they made all of the appropriate remarks and exclamations where they were called for, with all of the proper emotion. By the time she had finished, Anne was conscious of feeling as though neither she, nor any body else, had ever said any thing more riveting. It was an unfamiliar and very pleasant sensation, and she found herself regarding the Harts much more warmly than a daughter of Sir Lewis de Bourgh really ought to regard the offspring of a physician.

She recalled herself, however, when Mrs. Jenkinson returned, bearing the promised cup of mineral water. "I do apologize most sincerely, Miss de Bourgh," the nurse said contritely; "there was a terrible crush at the pump." She eyed Miss de Bourgh's acquaintances very coolly. Anne took the proferred water and, sensing Mrs. Jenkinson's disapproval, made no move to introduce the parties—she was herself quite embarrassed, for if Mrs. Jenkinson thought it improper for her to be conversing with Dr. Hart's children in such a familiar manner, one could only guess what every body else in the room must think. Mrs. Jenkinson turned back to her mistress after a long pause.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam has only just arrived, ma'am," she said meaningfully, "and would be _very_ glad of your company, I am sure. He will doubtless pass on his fondest greetings to your mother _Lady_ Catherine, for whom he has such a very proper esteem." This last seemed to be intended more for the Harts than for Miss Anne, who was concerned only with the news of Colonel Fitzwilliam's arrival. She bade Miss Hart and her brothers a suitably distant good-bye, expressing her kind compliments to Dr. Hart, and receiving their own wishes that she might enjoy Bath very much indeed, before rising to join the promenade again.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was not difficult to locate, being both tall and dressed in his uniform, as he walked up and down the room in the company of an exceedingly handsome young lady who was unfamiliar to Anne. He met his cousin very amiably, declared his surprise and delight at finding her in the Pump Room, repeated his thanks for the pleasant evening he had spent at the Royal Crescent only the night before, and introduced his companion as a Miss Finch (Miss Anne had never heard of the young lady's family, and privately dismissed her as no-body of consequence). The three of them spent a very pleasant quarter-hour promenading the room. Anne found herself quite shy at first, yet slowly the ease with which she had managed to attain the previous evening returned, and she was able to maintain her side of the conversation without much awkwardness, though she was hardly vivacious.

To Anne's great surprise, Colonel Fitzwilliam was acquainted with Mr. Theodore Hart; this was discovered when Anne's party passed quite close to Mr. Hart and the twins as they made their way up and down the room. The gentlemen greeted each other with a friendliness that Anne found quite shocking, given their relative families and positions in the world, and spoke for some moments; Miss Finch, and Anne herself, were included in this greeting, though without the same familiarity. Mrs. Jenkinson, Anne noticed, looked rather thunderstruck. Yet Anne was quite daring enough to remark, as the two parties separated again:

"I had not realized you were acquainted with Mr. Hart."

"I had not realized _you_ were acquainted with Mr. Hart, my dear cousin," Colonel Fitzwilliam said, smiling; "Her Ladyship said only that you were a patient of his father's."

"I am not _well_ acquainted with him," Anne replied stiffly. "Today is only the second time we have met; I was introduced to him, and to his sister, when I paid my visit to Dr. Hart this past Tuesday."

"I met him in much the same way; Dr. Hart is well-respected here, and most of the gentlemen in the regiment have been seen by him at one time or another, and formed an acquaintance with his family. Hart is a very decent sort of fellow—I believe he is studying for the law, though I may be mistaken."

"Miss Rosamond is a charming little creature," Miss Finch put in, not to be left out of the exchange, "though of course her elder sister is the true beauty of the family."

Neither Colonel Fitzwilliam nor Anne could add anything to Miss Finch's remark, and the conversation soon passed on to other matters.

* * *

It was a well contented Anne de Bourgh who left the Grand Pump Room that afternoon. Her newfound comfort in conversation with her cousin was exceedingly agreeable to her, for she had never, on the Colonel's previous visits to Rosings Park in the company of Mr. Darcy, found him so pleasant and effortless to talk to. Almost as agreeable was the unexpected ease she had found in conversing with the Harts—for Colonel Fitzwilliam's friendship with Mr. Hart rather improved Anne's consideration of her own conduct in affording that family some little notice, and she could not help thinking that Mrs. Jenkinson's disapproval and coolness towards them was more than was strictly warranted. Indeed, no sooner had they climbed into the barouchet than that lady let fall her opinions of the afternoon:

"I was very surprised, Miss de Bourgh," she began woodenly, "to find you in the company of those specific acquaintances whose conduct towards you has never been any thing but reprehensible; for surely you remember, ma'am, how ill-treated you were at Hart House, and how neither Dr. Hart nor his family seemed to have the least respect for your rank or elevated family position."

Anne bristled. As a young lady of rank and elevated family position, she was unaccustomed to criticism of any sort from any body except her own mother, and Mrs. Jenkinson's presumption seemed to her quite as reprehensible as anything that had occurred at Hart House.

"You will recall, Mrs. Jenkinson," she said coldly, "that Lady Catherine approves of Dr. Hart enough to make him my regular physician here in Bath; I am sure you would not wish to disagree with _her_. And furthermore," she went on, over the lady's hasty objections, "as I _am_ a patient of Dr. Hart, it would be most proper for me to be on civil terms with his family, as I shall no doubt be seeing them rather often."

"I certainly do not mean to criticize Lady Catherine's judgment, nor your own, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson said contritely. "Yet I feel it is my duty, as one who has a true admiration for the titled classes, to remind you that civility is quite generous enough; the Harts are hardly suitable for any further intimacy."

"I assure you," Miss de Bourgh scorned, "I shall never call any of the Hart family my 'intimate friends'."

She sank back into the pillows, rather weared by this forceful exertion of her will; she wondered if her mother had ever felt drained after making one of her proclamations. There was certainly some truth in Mrs. Jenkinson's words, and Anne thought privately that she should be more careful, in her further dealings with the family, to remain as aloof as possible.

Yet she could not be entirely dissatisfied with the afternoon, and that night, as she drifted off to sleep, Anne could not help reflecting that the Pump Room really was a much pleasanter place when one had someone to share it with, whether that someone was a Hart or a Fitzwilliam.


	4. Chapter 4

The second week of Anne's stay in Bath seemed much pleasanter to her than the first. She was still obliged to spend most of her afternoons at home in the drawing room with Lady Catherine, and was still not at her ease when conversing with the ladies and occasional gentlemen who called on them; but now she had been to the Pump Room, and had slightly more to contribute when asked her opinion of Bath and its amusements. The Pump Room itself was honored by Miss de Bourgh's presence twice more, and she met Miss Hart there once, accompanied by Miss Finch and a Miss Cates. The dialogue was, on Anne's side, appropriately reserved, and Mrs. Jenkinson's silently stern presence at her back reminded Anne to take her leave of the young ladies _very_ soon in order to greet the Miss Wentworths, who were much more prominent and therefore much more suitable for Miss Anne's circle of acquaintance. (That Miss Anne found them also much more difficult to talk to was understood to be only a consequence of their rank, for it is always easier for one to speak to her inferiors than to her equals.)

In addition to the Pump Room, Anne spent several mornings exploring the shops. Her mother and Mrs. Jenkinson were much concerned that Anne was over-exerting herself; yet this was one area in which even Lady Catherine could not hold dominion over her.

"The fresh air will do me good, ma'am," Anne insisted, when her Ladyship suggested that her daughter spend the morning at rest by the fire. "And I am only in the shops; it is not as though I am performing any strenuous exercise. If I grow very weary, I will of course return directly."

Lady Catherine was unaccustomed to this brand of defiance from her daughter, and was at first tempted to forbid her leaving the house merely on principle. Yet she had noticed that the air of Bath seemed to be doing Anne some good, as her color was slowly improving and she did not cough or sniffle as she used to—and at any rate, Dr. Hart, due for a second appointment on Thursday, would certainly inform her if Anne's exertions were doing her any harm; so her Ladyship's consent was very grudgingly given.

Anne had her own reason for her boldness. In Kent, it was a rare occasion for Miss de Bourgh to visit the village near Rosings Park; her health and rank did not permit it. Yet Anne _did_ go, every so often, to look at the rows of bright ribbons hanging in the windows, to run her fingers over the fine silks in the dressmaker's shop, to admire the bonnets on display in the milliner's. The shops were one of the few real pleasures Anne had at her disposal. She never made a purchase; the actual shopping was the duty of a trusted maid with strict instructions from Lady Catherine. Her Ladyship had very specific ideas and opinions about her daughter's dress, and favored dark, heavy fabrics with excessive trimmings, which made Anne's wealth and importance very clear to any body who might see her. Anne herself was not overly fond of any of her clothes, but had never seen any cause to buy any thing she did like—for who _was_ to see her, besides the Collinses and the farmers she drove past in her phaeton sometimes? There was no need to look fashionable in the country; the de Bourghs always preferred to look rich.

But Bath, Anne felt, was different. Here, there were thousands of people who might see her, and it would not do for Miss de Bourgh of Rosings Park to be seen in any thing other than the current style. And the shops! Anne had never seen so many ribbons, so many bonnets and head-dresses, so many feathers and fabrics. The sight of them made her head spin pleasantly; the little village shops, which she had so prized, seemed quite insignificant to her now. Despite all her family's eminence, Anne could not help feeling that every body who saw her must think her very provincial indeed, and she was rather thankful that they were only in Bath, and not in London.

In addition to clothes-shopping, Anne had found several very well-stocked book-shops, of which she made full use. The library at Rosings Park had not been added to since Sir Lewis' death, for Lady Catherine had no love of reading, and Anne had never dared order any thing for herself. But here, she found it only natural to carefully select a few novels, and one or two volumes of poetry, which she perused in the evenings before retiring—nothing shocking, of which her mother would disapprove, but certainly more engaging than the stale discourses that collected dust on the shelves of the Rosings library.

And so Anne passed her days enjoyably. It was a refreshing change, she reflected, to have places to go; at Rosings, she could only ever escape to walk in the gardens for a half-hour, or to take a short drive in her phaeton. Though Anne would never go so far as to say she dreaded her mother's company, she might be pressed to admit that she occasionally found Lady Catherine rather trying, and her newfound ability to spend mornings out of the house was certainly a welcome respite.

After nearly three weeks in Bath, Anne awoke very early one morning to find the weather so fine that even Lady Catherine should not have been able to deny its perfection: the sky an idyllic blue, the air crisp and clear, the sun casting a golden blush on every thing below. Anne's usual hour of rising—rather later than most young ladies, in deference to her health—was still some two hours off, and so she closed her eyes again and attempted to fall back asleep; yet the morning was far too lovely, and she at last threw her covers back, dressed as quickly and quietly as she could (unaccustomed as she was to dressing without assistance), and left the Royal Crescent for one of the walking-parks nearby.

The day was perfect. Anne had heard very much about the beautiful walks and parks in and around Bath, but this was the first opportunity she had taken to explore one of them, and (rather to her surprise) she was not disappointed. It was still too early for there to be many people about, and the quiet was so serene that Anne could almost imagine herself back in Kent. She had not realized how she missed walking in the gardens and groves at Rosings Park, but the morning air and sunlight invigorated her as nothing else had done since she arrived in Bath. There was no Mrs. Jenkinson fretting over the damp or the wind, no lady's-maid shielding her with a parasol; it was, Anne realized, the first time, in a very long time, that she was completely alone. She wondered momentarily if she ought to return to the house and summon one of the maids to accompany her, but she could not bring herself to turn around. Anne walked on, for once thinking nothing of her health or her consequence, and what considerations were due to either.

She had been walking for nearly a quarter of an hour when she distinguished the profile of a man walking towards her. Anne's solitude suddenly seemed more alarming than peaceful, and she stopped in her tracks: unwilling to turn around, but uncertain it was either safe or proper for her to be alone, in a quiet park, with a strange man. The man in question drew closer as she hesitated, and Anne saw, with some relief, that he was no stranger at all, but Mr. Theodore Hart. It was perhaps this relief that caused her to bid him good-morning, before she had time to recall the necessity of remaining distant in order to preserve the distinction of rank.

Mr. Hart looked surprised to see her, but met her with a warm and courteous greeting nonetheless. They stood in silence for a moment, before Mr. Hart said,

"You are walking very early this morning, Miss de Bourgh; I hope you are well?"

"Why should my walking early suggest I am unwell?" Anne asked, bemused.

"I suppose it might not; yet it has long been a habit of mine, when I am thinking over weighty and difficult manners, to wake early and take a long walk. I hope you do not find yourself in such a position."

"No," Anne replied, "indeed I was thinking of nothing at all." Then, fearing this response was perhaps rather too flighty, added "You are a long way from Widcombe."

"I am indeed, but this is one of my favorite parks. I find it especially beautiful in the mornings, before it becomes crowded."

"It is very peaceful," Anne agreed. Somehow, due perhaps to the early hour or the beauty of the morning, she found reserve rather more difficult to attain than she would otherwise; and when Mr. Hart offered his arm, she took it without thinking him insolent—indeed, she was almost grateful, for she was unused to such long walks and was beginning to tire. They walked a few steps before the silence was broken again.

"Since we are in Bath, and you are a visitor here, I cannot allow us to hold a conversation together without asking you the eternal question: Miss de Bourgh, how do you find Bath?" Mr. Hart's tone was light, and Anne, who had indeed been asked the question very many times over the past two weeks, could not help but smile.

"I must give you the answer every body gives, I suppose," she replied. "I find it very pleasant."

"You have been to the Pump Room, I know; what other venues have you explored?"

"Only a few of the shops. There is a bookseller here, called Mostyn's, which I confess I visit very often; other than that, I have hardly explored at all."

"Mostyn's is a favorite refuge of my sisters, who are all very good readers. Juliet in particular is dearly fond of poetry, and is forever replenishing our library."

"Have you a library?" Anne asked, surprised, for she had not thought the Harts' income sufficient to keep one. In a lesser lady, this question may have been called impertinent; but Mr. Hart appeared to take no offense.

"Indeed, and it is a strange one: my sisters' novels, a few of my own law books, one or two books of sermons, rather more books of poetry and a great many medical books belonging to my father. I suppose we can boast variety, if nothing else."

Anne thought privately that a varied library was certainly preferable to the Rosings library, but said nothing. It was left to Mr. Hart to break the silence again:

"I understand my father is to see you again on Thursday, Miss de Bourgh. I hope you have not been feeling ill."

"No," Anne said, and realized with some surprise that it was true. "It is only an examination, to make certain that I am quite healthy, for I was suffering a most terrible cold upon my arrival here. I have no specific complaints at all, but my mother worries for me."

"That is very kind of her," said Mr. Hart, amused, "and exactly what a good mother ought to do."

"It is very kind, but unnecessary. I am rarely truly ill, though when I am it is quite dreadful; but she forever thinks me suffering from some ailment. I have not been _very_ ill since I was a child, but my mother can never be easy." The awareness that she was sharing far too much, all matters of class and title aside, reached Anne all at once, and she grasped hurriedly for a change of subject. "I hope your family are all well?"

"Very well, thank you."

"I saw Miss Hart in the Pump Room Tuesday last."

"Yes, she mentioned your meeting. She was disappointed that you were unable to speak for very long; it seems you met with other acquaintances." There was a strange hard tone to his voice. Anne had the peculiar feeling that she was being accused of something, and it irritated her.

"The Miss Wentworths," she said coolly, "are very dear friends of my family, and I was of course obliged to show them every courtesy."

"Of course," Mr. Hart replied, but said nothing else. They walked without speaking for some time, Miss de Bourgh's hand still on Mr. Hart's arm.

"I suppose we should turn around," Anne ventured quietly after several minutes. She did not particularly wish to do so; the morning was so fine, and the conversation was rather more engaging than any thing else she had heard for the past week—or had been, before Mr. Hart's sudden unfriendliness had taken hold. They began walking back the way they had come, and Anne, uncomfortable in the silence, said finally, "I understand you are acquainted with Colonel Fitzwilliam; he is my cousin, you know."

"I was not aware," Mr. Hart said shortly, but then he appeared to relent and added, "Colonel Fitzwilliam is a good man, and I am glad to call him my friend. Do you see him often?"

"He visits us at Rosings at least once or twice annually, and of course we have seen him several times since being in Bath. It is very pleasant to be able to see him so often."

"Indeed, I can think of few things I like better than having my family all round me."

"I wish I had brothers and sisters," Anne said, without thinking; then she realized how very silly and petulant the remark sounded, and blushed quite horribly. Mr. Hart was, again, very forgiving, and acted as though she had said something entirely clever and appropriate.

"I confess that, as a boy, I used to wish I was in your position, merely to have some quiet; you must understand that my family was always remarkably loud. But I cannot truly imagine giving up any of my sisters. Robert, perhaps…I am entirely in jest, Miss de Bourgh," he added hastily, at Anne's scandalized glance. "I really love my brother, I assure you."

Anne was both shocked and amused, but was saved the necessity of attempting a reply by their reaching the entrance of the park and facing each other to take their leave.

"A very fond farewell, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said jovially, his good spirits apparently returned, "and my best wishes for your health and your future enjoyment of Bath and all its offerings."

"Good-bye, Mr. Hart," Anne replied, smiling a bit despite herself at the words 'very fond' (no gentleman had ever said those words to her). Then, almost as if on impulse, she added "Do give my warmest regards to your brother and sisters."

"I shall indeed, and I may safely say that the sentiment will be returned."

"And—" Anne hesitated, Mrs. Jenkinson's reminders of rank and propriety echoing in her mind, but decided there could be no real harm. "I do hope to see you, and your brother, and Miss Hart, again."

"I am sure you shall, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said kindly. "Bath is not a very large place, after all; it is the sort of city where one always meets with one's acquaintance."

He bowed; Miss Anne curtsied; and they parted.

* * *

Anne found herself in very good humor for the remainder of the day. Her Ladyship, on the contrary, was most seriously displeased by her daughter's early outing, not out of concern for Anne's health but because she thought it highly improper for a lady of rank to appear in public without at least two attendant servants, lest people be unaware of her eminence. Lady Catherine furthermore forbade Anne from ever again leaving the house before ten o'clock, alone or otherwise. "It is highly damaging to your reputation," she ranted, "and I am quite outraged that you could be so thoughtless. And the state of your frock! Wet through the hem, from the dew, no doubt. Perhaps we ought to begin calling you Elizabeth Bennet!"

Yet Anne's fine spirits prevailed. For reasons unknown even to herself, Anne, when questioned on her whereabouts that morning, said only that she had risen early and gone for a short walk; all mention of Mr. Hart was omitted. She supposed she had behaved rather inappropriately by walking and talking so long with that gentleman, but there had been no one around to see, after all, and the relative ease she had gained in conversation with him aided in her confidence when conversing with other acquaintances. Mr. Hart, she decided, was very good practice: a gentleman, but not a member of Society, upon whom she could rehearse her social faculties. His commendation of Colonel Fitzwilliam was also agreeable to her, as it is always agreeable to hear somebody one likes well spoken of.

The fine weather auspiciously marked the beginning of the true Bath season, and the de Bourghs found themselves more in demand than ever before; though now, of course, they were also obliged to pay calls as well as receive them. (Lady Catherine did not object to her daughter's exerting herself when it was under her own orders, and for the good of her social standing.) The closest Anne had ever come to paying a true social visit was stopping her phaeton outside Hunsford Parsonage to speak to Mrs. Collins for a minute or two, and she found the practice of riding in the carriage, sending the footman up the stairs, and then proceeding inside herself to be considerably more wearing than sitting in her own drawing room for hours at a time. However, the change of scenery did offer some advantages: at least, when she was visiting some body else's house, Anne could remark upon the agreeableness of the room, when she had run out of conversation about the weather and what she had seen so far in Bath. This prolonged her conversations for up to half a minute.

Dr. Hart's visit on Thursday marked a welcome respite from Miss Anne's social schedule. The doctor arrived promptly when he was expected, thus earning the approval of Lady Catherine, who could not abide tardiness. He was also civil and deferential to her Ladyship, though he showed none of the obsequiousness and eagerness to please which she was accustomed to find in Mr. Collins; he greeted Miss Anne with no vulgar familiarity or over-friendliness, and in general proved himself to be professional and respectable in every way, though Mrs. Jenkinson, who sat in on the session, still could not approve of his methods.

"How have you been feeling, Miss de Bourgh?" was the doctor's first question, and Mrs. Jenkinson interjected before her mistress could reply:

"I have always understood, sir, that it is the _physician's_ duty, not the patient's, to assess the patient's state of health."

"You are quite correct, Mrs. Jenkinson, in supposing that to be my objective," Dr. Hart replied, unruffled. "However, outward symptoms are generally rather limited in both availability and usefulness, and Miss de Bourgh must inform me of any head-aches, stomach-aches or other complaints she may suffer, which I could not discern by looking at her." He returned his attention to his patient, and Miss de Bourgh gave her nurse the most punishing look she could manage; however, she was to be outdone, for Lady Catherine was quite shocked at her employee's breach of etiquette and snapped "Do keep quiet, Mrs. Jenkinson." The lady in question sat back in her chair, chagrined.

The examination proceeded without further incident. Dr. Hart inspected Miss Anne's ears and throat, measured her pulse and her temperature, and asked her questions about her diet, her daily routine, and her sleeping habits, all the while making short notes on his little note-pad. Anne was quite surprised that her mother refrained from answering any of the doctor's questions, allowing Anne to speak for herself, though the peace was not to last:  
"I am concerned, Dr. Hart," Lady Catherine began, as the doctor's visit drew to a close, "that Anne may be over-exerting herself. She is a delicate creature, you know, who has never been blessed with the robust health that I myself appreciate, and in Kent she is used to quiet days and evenings spent at home, with a short afternoon walk in the gardens. But here in Bath, we are very much in demand socially (as ladies of our rank often are) and besides, Anne has been running herself quite ragged—walking in the morning when the dew is still on the grass, spending two hours at a time out at the shops, and so on. She is unused to so much activity, and I am very much concerned that she is doing herself damage; for young ladies ought not to be very active, particularly when their health is so questionable."

Dr. Hart glanced at Anne, who was blushing terribly. She had of course expected her Ladyship to make this complaint, but now that it had come she found herself truly dreading Dr. Hart's inevitable agreement. He could easily proclaim her "entirely well" when the only obstacle to his doing so was Mrs. Jenkinson's disapproval, but no physician had ever argued with Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the matter of her daughter's health, and Anne could not expect Dr. Hart to do what countless other doctors throughout her life had failed in. Yet she could not bear the thought of hearing another recommendation for her to sit quietly indoors, avoid the sun, and wear her cashmere shawl at all times.

She was therefore taken aback when Dr. Hart said, very carefully, "Your concern is entirely justified, your Ladyship, given Miss de Bourgh's history; yet I can see no harm in Miss de Bourgh's taking such exercise. None of the activities you have described are particularly strenuous, and I believe they are only doing Miss de Bourgh good. I have known a great many young ladies who are very active indeed, and their constitutions fare all the better for it; indeed, my own daughters take regular long walks, and they could not be healthier. Of course, your Ladyship, you are quite right to be vigilant. Yet I consider Miss de Bourgh the best judge of her level of exercise, for only she can tell when she is feeling over-tired, and I trust her to be quite honest with your Ladyship and with herself, and admit when she needs to rest. A change of pace is quite often the best restorative, and I am sure you must admit, your Ladyship, that Miss de Bourgh's color and spirits seem very much improved since the first week of your arrival."

This long speech was greeted with a silence that was almost as long. Anne stared at the doctor, who looked thoroughly composed; he had removed his spectacles as he finished speaking, and was cleaning them with a small cloth he had drawn from his waist-pocket.

At length, Lady Catherine said "Her color, I can see, is indeed improved; her spirits I cannot vouch for." She sounded rather disgruntled, but was not regarding Dr. Hart in a way that signified he was to be thrown out of the Royal Crescent, and made no further response.

The visit concluded with civility on all sides, save that of Mrs. Jenkinson, who excused herself before the doctor took his leave. To Anne's surprise, Lady Catherine offered no condemnation of Dr. Hart save his "rather vaulted opinion of his own merits," which she supposed must come from being so in demand among the upper classes. "But I suppose he earns his praise," she added grudgingly. "And I was very pleased to see that he did not press for invitations, nor ask if he or his family might call on us socially; there is nothing more abominable than a working-man, however well thought of, who oversteps his bounds and attempts to be _friends_ with his patrons."

Anne thought fleetingly of the relationship between Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins, her own beneficiary; but of course, she reasoned, her Ladyship had her own reasons for allowing a social acquaintance with Mr. Collins and his wife, and surely neither of those parties would ever be so bold as to say they were _friends_.

* * *

The next morning, Anne was pleasantly surprised to find her mother without comment when she made it known that she intended to visit the bookseller's that day. She had finished one of her previously purchased novels, and understood it to be the first in a published series, with the sequels already available. Lady Catherine offered no further criticism of her daughter's taking the exercise.

"But mind you dress warmly, for there is an unseasonable chill in the wind this morning," Lady Catherine added crossly. She eyed Anne's muslin frock—new—with some distaste. "Certainly you will need a spencer at least, and perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson ought to carry a spare shawl. One can never be too careful in these damp climates."

The wind was rather strong, but Anne could discern no chill in it, when she and Mrs. Jenkinson set out for Mostyn's later in the morning. The weather was fair, and Bath was bustling: ladies and gentleman strolled up and down the sidewalks on errands of their own, some in groups and some unaccompanied. Anne was in a fine humor, finding every face amiable and every scene charming, enjoying the mingled smells of bread baking and flowers for sale. Mrs. Jenkinson suggested that it might be most proper for them to hire a sedan-chair, since Anne had decided not to take one of the de Bourghs' own carriages; yet Anne could not abide the thought of shutting herself into the little box, and insisted that they walk.

They arrived at Mostyn's within a half-hour. It was located on a fashionable little street just off the main thoroughfare, surrounded on all sides by dress-shops and cafés. Anne caught Mrs. Jenkinson's rather longing glance as they passed one of these cafés, and, knowing her companion took no real pleasure in book-shops, felt a rare guilt for obliging the lady to spend her morning in such a fashion.

"Mrs. Jenkinson," she began, "would you not be much better pleased if you were to wait in the café while I went into Mostyn's?"

Mrs. Jenkinson protested, but could not hide her delight at the proposition. She had always been an avid admirer of fashionable society, and the de Bourgh household's current residence in Bath afforded her the prospect of admiring those ladies and gentlemen at much closer range than she had been able to in Kent; the large windows of the café in question could only aid in that purpose.

Yet, "It would not be at all proper, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson maintained. "It is my duty to accompany you."

"I should be much easier if you would wait for me," Anne insisted. "Mostyn's is only a few doors down, and I would not have you standing by me so impatiently." She spoke frankly, the daughter of a great lady who had never seen the need to be particularly tactful towards one's employees.

Mrs. Jenkinson colored. She was obliged to confess that she was often rather impatient when shopping with her mistress (though she had always thought herself quite adept at hiding it) for she had been taught to shop with a purpose, and was unaccustomed to browsing and poking about, as Miss Anne was wont to do. After some debate, during which Anne threatened to turn her request into a direct order, the ladies agreed that Mrs. Jenkinson should take a few coins and order herself a cup of chocolate, and that Miss de Bourgh would come fetch her when she was ready to leave.

Watching her nurse enter the café, Anne felt the same sense of freedom that she had felt in the park some mornings ago. She was not used to being alone, and (despite her consequence, and her understanding of propriety) found it quite liberating, though she knew her mother would disapprove.

Mostyn's was large (by Bath's standards) and bright, with tall windows and taller shelves. Anne had, as she had told Mr. Hart, visited quite often; yet she had made only a few purchases, the practice of buying things still something of a novelty to her, and she had never stayed for very long, Mrs. Jenkinson's poorly-veiled eagerness to leave always casting something of a shadow over the experience. Now, however, she found herself at leisure to peruse as casually as she wished, and allowed herself the unprecedented luxury of simply wandering the aisles.

She had spent some minutes in the shop, making no progress towards her object, when Rosamond Hart entered with two other girls. Anne was somewhat hidden behind one of the shelves, and held her place for a moment, uncertain of the proper course of action. One of the young ladies was familiar to Miss Anne as the Miss Cates who had accompanied Miss Rosamond in the Pump-room on their last meeting; the other, some three or four years younger, could only be one of Miss Rosamond's sisters, for she shared the gold hair and pleasing smile that distinguished the other members of the family.

The three young ladies chatted amiably, exclaiming over some of the titles displayed, as they explored the shop. Anne, still unseen, considered her position. Naturally she must greet her acquaintances, as courtesy demanded—yet Mr. Hart had (perhaps unintentionally) alerted her to the idea that Miss Rosamond may be offended at the circumstances of their past meeting, when Anne had so hurriedly excused herself to make her presence known to the much more noteworthy Miss Wentworths. The question of Mr. Hart himself was also an awkward one; did Miss Rosamond know of her brother's meeting with Anne, and if so, did she therefore think herself permitted to claim a greater intimacy than was proper? And the final consideration was simply one of inequality: the two Hart sisters, understandably, called one another by their Christian names, yet Miss Cates was apparently included in this familiarity, for not half a minute before, Anne had heard Miss Rosamond address her as "dearest Adele." The idea of being the outsider was a familiar but disheartening one to Anne, who had never had a friend to call by her Christian name, and had never, to her memory, been called "dearest Anne" by anyone, even her mother.

These discouraging reflections were passing through Anne's mind within several very short moments, during which Miss Rosamond espied the title she was apparently searching for on the shelf behind which Anne was hiding. She reached out her hand for it at the same moment Miss Anne stepped from behind the shelf, and the sudden appearance of a body, so close, roused in Miss Rosamond some momentary alarm; she let out a half-shriek.

"Why, Miss de Bourgh!" she exclaimed, the fright passing. "You gave me a start—excuse me." She curtsied, a polite smile on her face.

"I am sorry," Miss Anne replied, blushing.

"Ta! It is no matter. How pleasant it is to meet you this way, Miss de Bourgh! My father said he visited you yesterday, and that you seemed very well, and I am glad to see it is true."

"Thank you," Miss Anne answered, her worries calmed by Miss Rosamond's ease of manner; the lady seemed neither unsociable, nor disposed to claim any great intimacy, and seemed quite unaware that Anne had ever met her brother in any park on any morning.

"I see you have discovered Mostyn's—it is a favorite shop of mine. I confess I am not very given to improving books; I much prefer novels." She drew the volume she had been reaching for from the shelf and held it out for Anne's inspection. "This is one I still have not read, though the entire series has been published for some time. I confess, Miss de Bourgh, I do not read nearly as often or as quickly as I should wish."

"That is the same book I have come for myself," Anne said, with some surprise. "I finished the first only last night."

"Did you! And what did you think of it?"

Miss Rosamond's expression was open and honestly curious, and Anne was reminded of their first official meeting in the Pump-room, when Miss Rosamond had asked her so earnestly about Kent and Rosings. Anne had the same sensation now, of being the most fascinating person Miss Rosamond had ever spoken to, and despite Mrs. Jenkinson's warnings about over-familiarity, shared her opinions on the novel at some length. Miss Rosamond responded in kind, and Anne was both surprised and pleased to find the young lady of a similar mind to her own, at least when it came to books, and found a greater enjoyment in the ensuing discussion than she had found in almost any conversation since her arrival in Bath.

Unfortunately, they were interrupted by Miss Cates. "Miss de Bourgh," she laughed, "you must not start these girls on the subject of books; I daresay I have never met such horrid bluestockings as the Hart sisters."

Miss Rosamond, laughing, seemed wholly unoffended, and as her sister approached, begged Miss de Bourgh's pardon for not having introduced her earlier. "My dear little Juliet," she declared, folding an arm about the younger girl's waist, "is going to be a famous poet one day."

Dear little Juliet awarded her sister with a brilliant smile. Anne could not help reflecting, somewhat sadly, that the two of them made a charming picture: two lovely fair-haired faces with a pleasing sisterly likeness. She remembered her words to Mr. Hart, the embarrassing confession of her own wish for brothers and sisters, and felt that the words had never been more true.

"She would do better to go into novels," Miss Cates advised, "for women can never write poetry."

"That is quite untrue," Miss Rosamond declared, looking very amused, "for Juliet has already written some, and it is better than—than Praxilla!"

"You must not give Miss de Bourgh such an idea," Miss Juliet cried, "for what will happen if she reads some, and finds it is not like Praxilla at all?"

"I have no great love for books," Miss Cates broke in. "I find reading a silly way to spend time, for there are always more important things to do."

"That depends entirely on what one considers _important_," Miss Rosamond replied. "To an artist, painting a picture is more important; to a musician, composing a symphony."

"To a young woman of good features and a cheerful temperament," Miss Cates finished, "dancing, and meeting with acquaintance, and marrying well. And don't argue with me any longer, Rosamond—I am not Robert, after all."

Miss Cates' casual use of young Mr. Hart's given name was quite shocking to Anne, but Miss Rosamond merely smiled, and obediently changed the subject. "Have you been enjoying the fine weather, Miss de Bourgh?"

"Very much," Anne answered, rather relieved to be included in the conversation again. "I went for a very pleasant walk earlier this week—" She bit her lip, remembering that that was the walk on which she had met Mr. Hart, but neither of that gentleman's sisters had any look of recognition in their eyes. "In the park, near my lodgings," she finished hurriedly. "I am quite used to walking in the gardens at Rosings, but I daresay the scenery here is almost comparable."

"_Almost_, of course, because the scenery anywhere else can never compare to the scenery at home," Miss Rosamond said cheerfully.

"But I do not find myself missing Rosings as much as I thought I should," Anne confessed. "There is more to do here—more to see. As the Season begins, more of our acquaintance are arriving, and there are so many people to meet with in all parts of the city."

"Bath is that sort of city, where one always finds one's friends in the most unexpected places," Miss Rosamond agreed. Her words so closely echoed Mr. Hart's that Anne looked very hard at the young lady for a moment, but Miss Rosamond's guileless expression did not change.

"Rosamond," Miss Cates said impatiently, "it is growing very near noon, and you promised your brother—"

"Of course." Miss Rosamond turned back to Anne. "I am exceedingly sorry, Miss de Bourgh, but I fear we must leave you; we have an engagement to keep with my brother Theodore." She curtsied very low, followed by her sister and Miss Cates, the latter of whom did not see fit to curtsy quite so low as her companions. "You must promise me to read very quickly, and I will promise the same, for I want to compare opinions when next we meet—as I have no doubt we will."

Miss Rosamond gave Anne one last smile and made her purchase from the book-seller, and the ladies parted with very little further ado. Anne, left alone in the shop, perused the titles for several more minutes before she remembered that Mrs. Jenkinson was waiting for her, and made her final selections.

Mrs. Jenkinson was greatly enjoying her cup of chocolate and her view of the passers-by, and was almost disappointed when Anne appeared at the door of the café; yet she dutifully rose, and collected Miss Anne's parcels from her (for Miss de Bourgh could not be expected to carry her own parcels), and the two of them made their way home at a very leisurely pace, still enjoying the sights and sounds of Bath's vibrant streets.

Anne said nothing about encountering Miss Rosamond in the book-shop; she knew that Mrs. Jenkinson would very whole-heartedly disapprove, not only of Anne's affording Miss Hart any notice at all but of Anne's engaging that young lady in conversation for several minutes. Yet Anne felt no remorse. Despite herself, she had enjoyed her meeting with Miss Rosamond; she could not help thinking of her as one of the most agreeable girls she had ever met, though of course she understood that, very often, those with ambitions higher than their stations are particularly charming to any body who can help them realize those ambitions. But neither Rosamond Hart, nor her brothers and sister, nor her father, seemed at all anxious to claim Anne as an intimate friend or advantageous connexion; they were, Anne decided, a very amiable family, in a simple sort of way. Of course they had not the elevated manners and sensibilities of the ladies and gentlemen of Anne's own rank—but they were cheerful, polite, and quite easy to talk to and, despite their lower status, they lacked the fawning manner that she found rather ridiculous in Mr. Collins (though she knew it to be merited by her family's prominence, and her mother's patronage of that gentleman).

It was with something of a start that Anne realized she _liked_ Rosamond Hart. She did not think she had ever truly liked any body before. She was, of course, respectful of Lady Catherine, and she occasionally appreciated Mrs. Jenkinson's familiar presence, and she did not _dis_like Mrs. Collins or any of the other village ladies, but she never thought of them particularly warmly, if she thought of them at all. The concept of liking some body, for their own sake, was quite new to her—

But perhaps not so very new, Anne thought. After all, she quite liked Colonel Fitzwilliam, and thought of him with some fondness, especially recently. And she liked Mr. Hart; she thought him far more amusing than most other gentlemen of her acquaintance, though he was occasionally rather given to impertinence.

"Miss de Bourgh, are you quite well?" Mrs. Jenkinson demanded suddenly, interrupting Anne's thoughts. "You look flushed."

"Pray do not make yourself uneasy," Anne said impatiently. "It is merely the warmth of the day."

"Perhaps, madam, we ought to hire a sedan-chair."

"I very much enjoy walking," said Anne stoutly.

Well, she thought to herself, that made three people in the world whom she could definitively say she liked. That was a greater number than she was accustomed to, and she could not say she was displeased.

* * *

Anne returned home to find Colonel Fitzwilliam in the drawing-room with Lady Catherine. Her Ladyship seemed to be in the middle of what could only be called a tirade, and Anne fancied she saw a bit of relief in Colonel Fitzwilliam's gaze as she entered the room after having changed out of her walking-clothes.

"_There_ you are, Anne," Lady Catherine said crossly, interrupting her own monologue. "I declare we had quite despaired of your ever coming home. I hope you have not been tiring yourself. Colonel Fitzwilliam has come," she continued loudly, drowning out her daughter's response, "with an invitation—to a ball."

Anne's stomach dropped. "You're giving a ball, sir?"

"I? No," the gentleman said, laughing, "but our friends the Dalyrmples are hosting one in a week's time."

"And I am quite put out that Lady Dalyrmple could not deliver the invitation herself, or send it with a footman, as is the usual way," Lady Catherine went on. "I think very ill of her for inconveniencing Colonel Fitzwilliam so, and treating him as though he is a servant, when he is _my _nephew and, no less, the son of an earl."

"Second son," Colonel Fitzwilliam replied cheerfully, "and I assure you, Lady Catherine, it was no inconvenience; I happened to be visiting the family this morning, and volunteered to bring the invitation myself."

Lady Catherine did not look appeased, but turned her attention on her daughter. "Well, Anne?" she said irritably. "I suppose you will not want to go, for you have no love of dancing, but we are quite obliged. One cannot be in Bath without showing one's face at these ridiculous functions. And, at any rate, I declare Lady Dalyrmple would be quite heartbroken if I refused her invitation, for we are such very good friends."

Anne swallowed hard.

Her mother supposed correctly; she did not want to go to the ball. Miss Cates may have insisted that a young lady considers dancing more important than any thing else, but Anne had never been good at dancing (not having had much opportunity to practice, given her health) and was even less fond of balls. She had only been to one or two in her life, and had found them to be highly uncomfortable events, full of people who laughed and chattered and gossiped amongst each other, yet made no attempt at conversation with her. She had been asked to dance only twice in her life, once by Mr. Darcy and once by Colonel Fitzwilliam, both at her mother's demand.

Yet: "I am to attend," Colonel Fitzwilliam was saying, "as well as the Glovers, the Hargreves, the Finches, and the Wentworths, and several other families of our common acquaintance."

"I hope it is a private ball," Lady Catherine sniffed. "Public balls are so thoroughly vulgar; we shall certainly not attend, if it is a public ball."

"I understand it is private, and should therefore be very pleasant; for there are few things more enjoyable than spending time with one's friends." Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled at Anne, who managed to smile back, despite her sudden anxiety.

"In that case, it should not be so very intolerable," Lady Catherine declared. "Pray inform Lady Dalyrmple that Miss Anne and I shall attend."

Colonel Fitzwilliam promised to do so, and the conversation passed on to other matters: news concerning mutual acquaintances, the fine weather, the beginning of the Season and the amusements that were expected from it. Anne understood, through this line of discussion, that this was to be the first of very many balls—for Bath, though it wasn't London, was a city much given to dancing. She was careful to hide her uneasiness at the proposal of more balls, parties, and assemblies, and was able to bid Colonel Fitzwilliam a very fond farewell without much tremor in her voice, when that gentleman eventually stood to leave.

"He ought to have secured your hand, Anne, for the first dance," Lady Catherine said crossly, after Colonel Fitzwilliam had left. "After all, you are his cousin, and it is only proper. Yet there is still time; I suppose we shall see him again before the ball."

Anne retired early that evening, maintaining that her morning walk to Mostyn's had rendered her quite fatigued (though she realized, too late, that this was a risky course of action and, if pursued too often, might encourage her mother to forbid her such activities). Yet the events of the day mingled in her mind: the pleasure of her meeting with Miss Hart contrasted with the apprehension brought on by the upcoming ball, and she thought over both of these things, as well as several smaller details that distracted her, though she could not say why (Miss Cates and her obvious intimacy with the Hart family, Colonel Fitzwilliam and the prospect of his asking her for the first dance), until she was quite confused and knew not what to think of anything anymore.

Life at Rosings, she reflected, as she finally fell asleep, had never been so complicated, nor so fraught with delights and disasters.


	5. Chapter 5

The week passed far too quickly for Anne's liking. Her time, and that of Lady Catherine, was much taken up with visiting acquaintances and entertaining callers—which did nothing to lessen Anne's anxiety, for all any body wanted to talk about was the upcoming ball. Miss Hammond managed to mention three times, within a five-minute conversation, that her hand had already been claimed for the first _two_ dances by young Lord Adlam, and she was certain to imply that he was quite desperately in love with her; the twin Miss Dillinghams intimated that their mother had hired them a private dancing instructor in preparation for the occasion; Miss Godard made it known that she had been practicing her performance upon both the harp and the pianoforte, certain as she was that she would be called upon to exhibit these talents; Miss Hargreve spent nearly twenty minutes, in painstaking detail, her new ball-gown in dark green with embroidered yellow roses and pink satin trim. "I imagine I shall look very becoming indeed, especially with my pearls and white gloves," she declared confidently. Miss de Bourgh did not disagree.

Anne was fortunate indeed that she had thought to order some ball-gowns of her own amidst all her shopping (though she had done so primarily because the fabrics she found were so very charming, rather than out of any desire to ever wear them to a ball), and so her mind was easy on that point. Yet her worry remained. Every day the ball drew closer, she felt more certain that she could not face it, daughter of Sir Lewis and Lady Catherine de Bourgh or no.

As has been mentioned before, Anne's previous experience with the ballroom had been unfortunate; out of all the young ladies present, she had remained sitting down the most, and had only danced with her cousins because her mother, or perhaps their own senses of decency, had insisted that they ask her. She had been too shy (though she would not admit it) to enter into conversation with any body, and had remained ignored for most of the evening, Lady Catherine being occupied with her own eminent friends. What Anne remembered most was the supreme isolation and humiliation she had endured, the feeling that every body was looking at her and knowing her to be alone, and above all the feeling that every body else was very much together. She dreaded feeling that way again.

In addition, the food had been terrible and the musicians had played far too loudly for Anne's liking, and she had not known very many of the songs, although every body else seemed to. The evening had ended with a stern rebuke from her Ladyship for her inability to recommend herself to the room—"For your marriage may already be arranged, Anne, but it is no excuse to sit in the corner and sulk for an entire evening; people will begin to talk." Anne had protested that she had a head-ache. Lady Catherine had responded by banishing her to bed the moment they returned to Rosings, and summoning Dr. Reed the very next morning; that gentleman lost no time in recommending a solid week of bed-rest and plain foods. With these painful remembrances to plague her, it is no wonder Anne de Bourgh seemed to be the only person of consequence in Bath who was not looking forward, with great enjoyment, to the Dalyrmples' ball.

She found some solace in her newly-accustomed activities of walking in the park, sitting in the Pump-room, and browsing the shops; yet even these could not make her much easier, for she always met with some acquaintance who wanted to discuss the approaching event. Colonel Fitzwilliam had assured Lady Catherine that the ball was a private one, but it seemed to Anne that there had been a great many people invited, some of whom (such as Miss Finch and her family) she was not certain deserved their invitation; she had expected the Dalyrmples to be much more selective than they apparently were.

Anne's present discontent was compounded by the fact that she saw nothing of the Harts for the entire week. It seemed that now she had made up her mind to like them, in spite of all the inappropriateness and inequality of such a friendship, they had disappeared from Bath entirely. There were no morning walks with Mr. Hart; Miss Rosamond and Miss Juliet made no further appearances at Mostyn's or any other shops Anne visted. She was quite put out, for she had finished the novel that she and Miss Rosamond had bought, and was quite anxious to discuss it with that young lady. She thought she caught a glimpse of Mr. Robert Hart rounding a street corner as she left the Roman Baths one afternoon, but she could not be certain. The Pump-room was devoid of Harts, and Anne was obliged to sit an entire quarter-hour with the Miss Wentworths (who spent a great deal of time promenading there, being the sort of young ladies who very much enjoy being seen) without once catching a glimpse of any of the family either entering or leaving through the great doors. Even Dr. Hart was absent, though this was accounted for by the fact that her Ladyship had postponed his visit until the following week, believing preparations for the ball to be the more pressing concern. Anne had not attended one in so long that she was obliged to learn many of the dances all over again, which was especially troublesome as neither she nor Lady Catherine could quite delude themselves into thinking her a graceful dancer. At least, Anne thought, Colonel Fitzwilliam had not yet secured her hand for the first dance, for then she would have been thrown into a panic.

"You have no talent for dancing, Anne," Lady Catherine said gravely, after a particularly dreary practice; "but you have an excellent fortune, and an excellent family; and these facts alone will certainly attract plenty of attention."

Anne had been exceedingly worried that no body would pay her any attention at the ball, but was surprised to find that her mother's estimate was even more alarming. She was accustomed to being the outsider; she had only just begun to find herself at ease in society, and could not stand the thought of having a great many eyes upon her. She went to bed that night even more filled with dread than she had been, and awoke with the certainty that she should suffer a nervous collapse.

She considered asking her mother if she might abstain from the ball, on account of her frail health, but dismissed this idea almost immediately. There were two possible outcomes, neither of them pleasing: on the one hand, her Ladyship might very well refuse to allow Anne to remain at home, determined as she was to make herself and her daughter the most indispensably well-connected family in Bath; and on the other hand, Lady Catherine, already displeased with Anne's constant and generally unlimited movements about town, needed little provocation to forbid her daughter these activities and keep her shut away inside—"for her health", as she would surely declare. Anne, who had enjoyed very much her ability to walk, to shop, to go places, could not bear the idea of being forced into the same sedentary life she knew at Rosings Park, and so she steeled herself as best she could for the impending ball.

The day arrived, and a great many hours were spent on preparations. Both de Bourgh women required the service of several maids throughout the afternoon; there were expensive lotions and perfumes (Lady Catherine allowed only Milk of Roses and Olympian Dew beneath her roof) to be applied, hair to be curled and pinned in place beneath headdresses, jewels to be donned and, most necessarily, petticoats, stays and finally gowns and over-dresses to be put on, adjusted, and adjusted again. As a young lady of the titled class, Anne was quite accustomed to being dressed by her maid; yet dressing for a ball seemed to be an event of its own, requiring a much higher level of care and diligence, and Anne felt rather foolishly nostalgic for her comparatively simple daily toilette.

Miss de Bourgh was declared quite ready with plenty of time to spare, and the maids were ordered to make haste to her Ladyship's dressing chambers. Anne found herself entirely alone in her room, for even Mrs. Jenkinson had been summoned to assist with Lady Catherine's toilette. The hustle and bustle of the preparations had left her feeling strangely serene in the face of the imminent event; she wondered if this was perhaps the "calm before the storm", or if her worry had simply worn itself out. Anne took advantage of the moment to examine herself in her mirror. It was not something she did very often; she knew perfectly well what she looked like, and until recently had worn clothes that she cared very little for, so what cause had she therefore to stare at her own reflection? Yet here she was dressed quite differently than she was accustomed to, and she allowed herself some curiosity, which she knew to be very different from vanity.

Anne was not one of those young ladies who are frequently pleased when they look in the mirror; she recognized the distinction of the de Bourghs in her features, but otherwise thought herself quite plain, with brown hair that veered rather too close to red for the current fashion. She had never been exceedingly bothered by this plainness, for she had always believed her marriage (to Mr. Darcy) to be guaranteed, and anyway she had never been surrounded by great beauties, who would certainly inspire jealousy in her. Anne thought herself plain, but thought Mrs. Collins and all of the other ladies of her Kent acquaintance equally plain, so was therefore not troubled by her appearance.

Now, however, she found herself almost enjoying her own reflection. Her gown was a pale blue silk, trimmed with braided gold satin that matched her gold necklace and earrings. It complemented her white satin gloves and the white satin bandeau in her hair, which had been wound very carefully in place by a maid who had given the impression that she might burst into tears if the arrangement were disturbed. The rest of Anne's hair had been arranged into delicate curls, which framed her face rather charmingly. Her figure had never been remarkable, so slight as she was, but the cut of the gown was entirely flattering and the neckline was low enough to suggest, but backed with delicate lace to adequately protect her modesty. She looked, she thought, quite fashionable—perhaps even pretty. These reflections raised Anne's spirits somewhat, and for a moment she even found herself looking forward to the ball, until the recollection of all the potential humiliations the ball entailed entered her mind again.

Lady Catherine was fastened into her fine silks and adorned with her large jewels before very long, and Miss de Bourgh was summoned to the carriage. "Why, Anne," her Ladyship cried, upon catching sight of her, "I declare you look more charming than you ever have before. That color really is very well-suited to you; it is doing a great deal for your complexion. I suppose there will certainly be several real beauties there, but you shall not be so very overshadowed by them."

This statement was not, perhaps, as encouraging as it could have been, but her Ladyship was the sort of woman who accepts flattery from others but does not generally bestow it, and so it was the best compliment Anne could hope for. The two ladies boarded the carriage and set off for the Dalyrmples' ball.

* * *

The street before the Dalyrmples' lodgings was quite full of fine carriages, and Lady Catherine was quite displeased to find that she and her daughter were obliged to disembark in the middle of the road, there being no space along the footway. Nevertheless, her Ladyship made an imposing figure as she was handed down from the carriage and crossed the street with all of the dignity she could muster, Anne trailing apprehensively in her wake.

As heiress of Rosings Park and acquaintance of several fine families, Anne was no stranger to splendor; yet the ball decorations quite exceeded any thing she had seen before. This, it was clear, was no country dance; the Dalyrmples had taken their duty as the first grand hosts of the season very seriously indeed, and had spared no expense. The rooms glittered with candles and baubles, and the fine satin and flower-bouquets gleamed in the golden light. The guests, too, had made every effort at grandeur—the men were all in knee-breeches, of course, with satin waistcoats and expertly-tied cravats, while the women had arranged themselves in sumptuous gowns, opulent jewels, brightly-colored fans and a great many magnificent head-dresses that looked quite complicated indeed. Anne was struck by the concern that her own relatively unadorned ensemble was entirely too plain for this assembly; but she remembered Colonel Fitzwilliam's description of Mr. Darcy's wedding as "simple, but with real elegance", and in looking at all of the very embellished ladies around her, felt that she was rather the superior.

"Don't dawdle, Anne," Lady Catherine snapped, but in a low voice, for it would not do for a lady of rank to be seen scolding her daughter in public. She took Anne's arm and pulled her through the assembly towards Lady Dalyrmple, who stood on the second stair of the grand staircase surrounded by attendants, so that they might deliver their compliments to the hostess. Moving so quickly, Anne had very little time to notice any body; but she did see Miss Hargreve, and the gown which that young lady had described so thoroughly, and had the satisfaction of thinking it hideous indeed.

Lady Dalyrmple received the de Bourghs' compliments with inestimable grace, and waved them into the ballroom. There, Lady Catherine immediately noticed several distinguished friends to whom she very much wanted to speak, and claimed a seat between Lady Bathurst and the Marchioness of Skaffington. (Anne noticed that one or two of these great ladies did not look quite so pleased to see Lady Catherine, as she might have expected; yet she supposed that they must not like a ball any more than she did, and were therefore in poor spirits.)

Lady Catherine joined the conversation without any hesitation, leaving Anne, after her introduction, to sit quite silently at her side. She took this opportunity to survey the room more completely. The elder Miss Wentworth was dancing, and the younger was sitting down and looking rather out-of-sorts. The Miss Dillinghams were dressed alike in matching yellow gowns that did not at all suit their yellow hair, and were talking quite energetically with a pair of young men whom Anne did not recognize. Miss Godard was walking arm-in-arm with a tall soldier who looked quite splendid in his uniform, while Miss Hammond was making a great show of dancing her much-mentioned dances with Lord Adlam. And then there were all of the people Anne did not recognize; a great many plain men, and a few handsome ones; a great many plain women, and a few beauties. The young people moved swiftly through the crowd, laughing and talking very fast to one another, and looking at every body else, while the older and married people sat and held what were apparently captivating discussions with one another, while fanning themselves elegantly and observing the scene very keenly. Above all of this commotion rose the music—a song Anne did not recognize, played by a great many instruments. Through the doors they had come through, Anne could just barely see into the vestibule and, through there, card-room, which was populated almost entirely by men who all looked very serious. At the far end of the ballroom were grand doors that led to a terrace, left open to allow the fine night breeze to cool the room. The crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow upon every thing.

Yet Anne was discontented. Every body she knew seemed to be entirely occupied with friends and acquaintances of their own, and the rest of the room was people she did not know at all. Again she had the feeling of being an outsider, an observer of the world, without any connexion to it at all. Even her mother was now entirely engaged in the conversation of the ladies around her. Anne shook her head, attempting to dispel her unhappiness, and tried to pay attention to the discussion, so that she might eventually join in; but all she could hear, over the music and the many voices in the room, were snatches of gossip:

"…but did you hear? Apparently she asked the woman right out…"

"…a very common sort of girl; I never trusted her…"

"…I daresay their mother is very ashamed; she scarce shows her face anymore, and the father won't speak of it…"

"…and such a sham of a marriage! She will never be happy…"

"…indeed, every body knows it was all for his fortune…"

"…a dreadfully coarse world we live in…"

"…we shall never know the truth, I suppose, but naturally every body has his suspicions…"

"…I understand he knew the entire time, and never said a word…"

"…what could she have been thinking?"

The subject of the conversation was entirely lost on Anne; whether all of these women were even holding forth upon the same item, was not clear. Her attention waned and she looked out over the room again.

"Anne," her mother said sharply, quite suddenly, and Anne jumped. Lady Catherine leaned closer and spoke quietly, though no less sharply: "Anne, I insist that you not spend the entire evening moping in that horrid way of yours."

"I was not _moping_, mother—"

"If no body has asked you to dance, then you must not look so very _available_," Lady Catherine went on, ignoring her. "Stand up and walk about; look as though you know where you are going; find some body to talk to, or you will seem very sad indeed, and I will be most seriously displeased."

Anne's instinct was to protest that she was too tired to walk about; but she remembered the probable result of such an action, and held her tongue. Instead she stood, curtsied to the assembled ladies (none of whom noticed), and walked away.

She tried to look as though she knew where she was going, but of course she did not. The ball may have been private, but it was quite full, and Anne had to move slowly and carefully in order to avoid colliding with any body or accidentally knocking some lady's head-dress from her head. She walked around the ballroom once without seeing any body she could easily talk to, and, thwarted in that regard, made her way into the vestibule.

There were a few parties coming in late, but Lady Dalyrmple and her followers had gone into the ballroom already. The card-room was quite full, but the only women in there were particularly devoted wives and shy younger sisters who had not wanted to let go of their husbands' or brothers' arms, and Anne had no such claim. She continued down the hall. The supper-room was empty aside from one or two small groups, who looked to be having serious discussions. The tea-room, father down the hall, was completely empty; beyond that were only the private rooms. Anne turned about and went back to the vestibule, then back to the ballroom.

It was even fuller now than before, and the moving throng of people carried her towards the great double-doors that led to the terrace. Having no desire for her mother to see her still wandering about lonely, Anne allowed herself to be carried. It was cooler out here than inside, and she pulled her shawl about her shoulders; but the night was very pleasant, and the stars very bright. The music was quieter from here, and while there were many people enjoying the lovely night, it was far from the crush of the ballroom. Anne took a deep breath and surveyed the scene and, to her surprise, her eyes fell upon Miss Hart and Miss Cates, walking arm-in-arm towards her. Miss Rosamond's eyes met Anne's at nearly that moment, and her face was lit by a very sweet smile of greeting.

"Miss de Bourgh!" she exclaimed, curtsying. Miss Cates seemed to take far less delight in Anne's presence, but made a short curtsy as well. "I seem to find you in the least expected places; how are you this night?"

Anne was surprised that Miss Rosamond should think the Dalyrmples' ball an unexpected place to find _her_, for _she_ was after all a young lady of rank, and Miss Rosamond was not but she could not help her relief; here she had been despairing of finding any acquaintance at all to speak to, and whom she should she meet with but some body she actually found agreeable! "I am very well, Miss Hart," she said, with real pleasure, "and I hope you and Miss Cates are the same."

Miss Hart and Miss Cates both professed their perfect wellness and happiness. They both looked quite lovely, Miss Rosamond in a white muslin gown and Miss Cates in a pink one, but Anne decided that, of the two of them, Miss Rosamond was the true beauty, for her features possessed more real kindness. Anne was comforted by the knowledge that she herself, at the present moment, looked pretty indeed, and was therefore (as her mother had predicted) not so very overshadowed by her company.

"Your dress is beautiful, Miss de Bourgh; it becomes you very well," Miss Rosamond said, as though she had read Anne's thoughts.

"I had not thought blue was as fashionable now, as it was last season," Miss Cates said pleasantly. "But I suppose you wear it well enough."

Anne was saved the necessity of having to reply by Miss Rosamond swiftly asking, "Are you well acquainted with the Dalyrmples, Miss de Bourgh?"

"I am indeed," Anne said immediately; but then she amended, "Not very well; Lady Dalyrmple is a friend of my mother's, but I myself have only spoken to her on a few occasions."

"I think her a very gracious lady," Miss Rosamond said warmly. "My father has been treating Lord Dalyrmple for his gout—oh, I suppose I ought not say that, but it is only us listening, anyway—and Lady Dalyrmple was kind enough to invite us all to tonight's ball as a way of saying thank-you! Is that not the most generous thing you could imagine?"

"I do hope she did not offer the invitation as her sole payment," Miss Cates said drily, but Anne paid her no attention, for she was already asking "_All_ of you?"

"Well, not _all_ of us," Miss Rosamond conceded. "Juliet is not out yet, you know, and of course Helena is in Paris; but Robert and Theo and I all came, and dear Adele as well, for Lady Dalrymple insisted I bring a guest." She smiled at Miss Cates.

"And where are your brothers?"

"Oh, in the card-room, to be sure. Papa forbid Robert actually playing, but I imagine he is encouraging Theo something dreadful."

Anne could not help but smile at this.

"But tell me, Miss de Bourgh," Miss Rosamond exclaimed, as though she had just thought of something important, "have you finished _Carlotta_?"

"I have!" Anne answered, excitedly in spite of herself. "You must tell me first what you thought of the ending."

"Lord," Miss Cates said loudly, "if you two are going to be discussing books, I must excuse myself.—I shall find one of your brothers, Rose, and make him dance with me."

"Do, do," Miss Rosamond laughed, "but I warn you neither of them is any good; Robert looks too much at his feet, and Theo is too fond of his own voice to pay any attention to the steps." Yet Miss Cates was undeterred, and, stepping through the grand doors, disappeared into the crowded ballroom.

Anne found herself rather relieved to be alone with Miss Rosamond; she thought Miss Cates had seemed rather out of spirits, and in her absence Miss Rosamond grew even more amiable. They walked along the terrace, conversing very easily, and their conversation soon moved from _Carlotta_ to other subjects. Anne found that Miss Rosamond was as fond of music as she was of reading, and could identify the songs the orchestra had played throughout the evening with no effort. She was also able to recommend Anne some very good milliners' and drapers' shops that, she promised, no body else who was there for the season would think to visit—"for I do live here _all_ the time, you know," she said. "I know a great deal about Bath."

She said it with good humor, yet there was a curious plaintive note in her voice. "Do you wish you lived some other place?" Anne asked, then immediately wished she hadn't, for the question sounded impertinent even to her. Miss Rosamond, however, appeared to consider the question seriously.

"I don't think I wish to _live_ somewhere else, really," she said after a moment. "I suppose I wish to _see_ somewhere else.—Our parents used to travel a great deal when Helena and Theo were small, but my mother had a particularly difficult confinement with Robert and I—twins, naturally, are always more trouble." She laughed. "After we were born, she was not as strong as she had been, and then she was expecting again. Of course my father's business was growing very rapidly as well, and he was so busy; we went to London a few times, and once we went abroad, but we have scarce left Bath since my mother died. My father's time is very much taken up with his practice, which is indeed wonderful, and I am quite proud of him, but—" She paused. "I wish very much to go visit Helena in France, but of course I cannot go alone, and neither of my brothers can go with me, for their studies are most important." Miss Rosamond stopped suddenly. "I am exceedingly sorry, Miss de Bourgh; I know I am being quite dull indeed. And this is a ball, so we must talk about—about dancing, I suppose. How many dances have you had tonight?"

"None," Anne admitted.

"I have had the same number; how very provoking! We must go inside this moment, and sit very near the dance, and look as charming as we can, or I am sure we will be forced to declare the entire evening a disappointment." Laughing, she began making her way towards the grand doors; Anne, not wishing to be left alone and lonely, had no choice but to follow.

* * *

They did sit near the dance, but for only a moment, before Miss Rosamond's hand was shyly requested by the same Lord Adlam whose affections Miss Hammond had boasted were hers. Miss Rosamond took very cordial leave of Anne before allowing herself to be led away, and Anne was left alone, until suddenly Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and sat beside her. Anne did not at all mind his company, for he looked quite dashing in his uniform, and she was glad to be seen sitting with him by all the other eyes in the room.

"I am happy to see you, dear cousin," he said cheerfully, "for I had thought you might not come; Lady Catherine, I know, has no particular fondness for these sorts of assemblies."

"But in Bath, one must always make an appearance," Anne responded, smiling.

"Indeed, and I am glad you have. Was that Miss Hart I saw spirited from your side a moment ago?"

Anne turned to him, eyes narrowed; she may have thought Rosamond Hart exceedingly likable, but that did not mean she would approve of a connexion between that young lady and Colonel Fitzwilliam. But the gentleman's countenance showed no sign of particular fondness or warmth, and when she replied "It was indeed," he made no response other than a polite nod.

"I met her brothers earlier," he said, by way of explanation. "An excellent family, I think, and I am glad the Dalyrmples invited them, for I confess I find them more agreeable than many of the people here!"

Anne refrained from agreeing, for she was not certain it was altogether proper for a lady of her status. They fell into a companionable silence, watching the dancers. Miss Rosamond and Lord Adlam made an attractive couple and, Anne noticed, it seemed Miss Hammond, seated a short distance away with a group of friends, had perceived this as well, for she was looking quite put out.

"Well, Miss Anne," Colonel Fitzwilliam said briefly, "I am sorry to confess I am engaged for the next set, or I suppose I ought to say I have engaged some body else; but may I be permitted to claim your hand for the set after that, and then accompany you and your mother in to supper?"

"You may indeed," Anne replied, with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension, for she was still not entirely confident of her dancing skills. "I am sure you shall find me sitting with Lady Catherine, for even now she is beckoning me." And indeed, her Ladyship had caught Anne's eye across the ballroom, and was gesturing at her with great dignity.

They rose and parted, and Anne made her way to her mother. Lady Catherine, having seen Anne's short conference with Cousin Fitzwilliam, separated from her circle of great ladies for a moment to congratulate Anne on a job well done.

"It is not the first dance, but it is a dance all the same," she declared. "And now that you have secured a dance with your cousin, Anne, I desire you will sit here by me, for it is not becoming for a lady of your rank to be always on her feet and wandering about." She returned to her friends, and Anne took the only seat that was available, which was in fact a few chairs away from her Ladyship's side. She did not mind.

The set drawing near its close, Anne was surprised again by the arrival of another gentleman: this time, the elder Mr. Hart. It seemed Miss Cates had not succeeded in convincing _him_ to dance, for he appeared at Anne's elbow and bowed very politely. Anne could not help the spark of delight his arrival provoked in her, though she did her best to quell it.

"We seem to meet in very diverse settings indeed, Miss de Bourgh," he exclaimed, taking the seat she offered him. "My front-hall—the Pump-room—the park—and now, the first and grandest ball of the season. None of the circumstances are ever the same, except that I am always glad to see you, and I hope against hope that you are always glad to see me."

Anne smiled, despite her determination not encourage him in his impertinence. "I am glad indeed, sir, but there is one circumstance different now; our meeting here is not a surprise to me, for I have already spent some twenty minutes in your sister's company, and she told me you were here."

"I am very sorry to hear it, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said solemnly. "I shall endeavor now to lift you from the dull fog which Rosamond's company must surely have caused."

"You are very hard on your sister, Mr. Hart."

"I must be, for she is always unduly happy in everything else she does. Why, look at her now! That gentleman she is dancing with—he has a title, has he not? Fortune smiles upon Rosamond, Miss de Bourgh, which is most unjust to the rest of us, so it falls to me to keep her in check. It is a matter of balance."

"I hope you are not serious."

"I am hardly ever serious, Miss de Bourgh." He smiled at her.

"That is a strange trait for one who is studying the law."

"Here we have another matter of balance: the law is a serious subject indeed, and when I am studying it I can only ever be grave. Therefore, the rest of my hours must be spent entirely without seriousness in order to make up for it."

Anne smiled, but could think of nothing witty to say and so changed the subject. "Where is your brother?"

"I left him in the card-room, with the understanding that I would spare him no mercy should he stray any closer to the tables."

"Are you afraid of his playing?"

"Of his losing, Miss de Bourgh."

"I suppose you are right in that," Anne said slowly. "I suppose it is another matter of balance; for if Fortune smiles upon Miss Rosamond, it must surely frown upon her twin—if your theory holds correct. And that would not be at all conducive to winning at cards."

Mr. Hart stared at her for a moment, then laughed out loud. Anne was unreasonably pleased with herself for having made him do so—she did not think she had ever made any body laugh so well before—and blushed.

"Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said, regaining his voice, "you will not believe me, after I have talked nonsense at you these past five minutes, but I did indeed come here with the intention of asking you to dance the next set with me. May I have the honor?"

Anne felt quite pleased at the prospect, and opened her mouth to reply; but Lady Catherine's attention had been caught by Mr. Hart's laugh and, though she had missed the rest of the conversation, she had managed to hear his question to her. Before Anne could say a word, her mother declared, quite stridently, "My daughter is not dancing this evening, sir. You are the fourth gentleman she has had to refuse; but it is inescapable. Miss de Bourgh has hurt her ankle and is quite unable to dance at all; indeed, she can hardly walk."

"I am most sorry to hear it," Mr. Hart replied, and he did indeed sound sorry. "I was not aware."

"Anne," Lady Catherine said, still at the top of her voice, "I desire you will move your chair closer to me; I really think you ought to hear this story that Mrs. Hammond is telling so well. It is most diverting."

Mr. Hart understood the hint, and took his leave from Anne with a most courteous bow and his best wishes for her swift recovery. Lady Catherine rose from her own chair to speak directly to her daughter.

"You are far too polite, Anne," she said sharply. "When such a gentleman pesters you in that way, you must insist that he remove himself; otherwise he may very well compromise your reputation. A man such as _that_ _one_ is not worthy of your notice, and it was quite insolent of him to ask you for your hand. You are not obliged to dance with every man who asks you; you must choose wisely."

Everything had happened so quickly that Anne was rather confused, and only half-attending to her Ladyship's words; but she could not help thinking that she had had very few men to choose from, and that the two who had chosen her had been the only ones she would have considered, in any case.

The next set began, and Anne saw that Colonel Fitzwilliam was dancing it with Miss Finch, who looked quite handsome in a pale green silk. Miss Rosamond was sitting with Lord Adlam at her side, and Mr. Hart and Miss Cates joined them before long. Lord Adlam seemed to speaking quite earnestly to Miss Rosamond, and Mr. Hart's attention was quickly claimed by Miss Cates; Anne, half-ashamed of herself and even of her mother, was glad of this, for it meant that Miss Rosamond would have no opportunity to mention to her brother that she and Anne had walked and talked together on the terrace. She wished that the whirling bodies of the dancers hid her from their view rather better, but settled instead for attempting to look as though she were paying close attention to Mrs. Hammond's narrative.

Mrs. Hammond's narrative took up most of the set. Anne had no idea what the lady was describing—something to do with a dress she had ordered, and one pattern mistaken for another, and a humorous misunderstanding at an evening card-party—and could only hear, over and over in her mind, Mr. Hart's question, and her Ladyship's rejection of him. She felt as though she could have cried from frustration; for who else would she dance with? She was not acquainted with any of the other gentleman in the room. She would be sitting down for the rest of the evening. Only the prospect of the dance with Colonel Fitzwilliam consoled her, and she began repeating the steps of the upcoming cotillion in her mind, in an attempt to drown out the endlessly recurring exchange between her mother and Mr. Hart.

"…Hart, isn't it? Lady Bathurst, did he not treat your little boy when he had the colic?"

Anne, who had been gazing rather dully at the folds of her gown, looked up, the cotillion forgotten.

"Indeed he did," Lady Bathurst said pleasantly, "and I thought him more than satisfactory; very professional, and certainly more knowledgeable than any of the physicians we've used in Hampshire."

"A fine physician he may be," Lady Derring put in, "but I confess I cannot understand why Lady Dalrymple invited his family this evening; I daresay it seems rather like over-mingling to me."

"A simple gesture of politeness," Lady Catherine decided. "I suspect she did not expect him to accept. It should never have occurred to _me_, that a physician's family would think themselves eligible to socialize with the peerage."

One or two of the ladies in the circle, who were in fact members of the peerage, looked askance at Lady Catherine, who was not; yet Miss Hammond, who was seated by her mother, was quick to agree.

"Did you see that silly girl of his, dancing with Lord Adlam?" she demanded. "I suppose she thinks that because she is rather pretty, she can dance with whomever she pleases."

"She is only pretty if one has a taste for that sort of thing, my love," Mrs. Hammond assured her. "I think your beauty much more universal; there is only a certain type of man who prefers fair hair, whereas no body can dislike a brunette."

"I imagine she sees herself as a sort of Cinder-ella," Miss Hammond went on scornfully, paying her mother no attention. "A scheming chit of a girl if ever I saw one—fancies herself Lady Adlam already, I don't doubt."

"Indeed, I simply do not understand why they were invited," Lady Derring said again. "It makes me quite uneasy, if I am honest."

"I daresay there is no real harm in it," Lady Bathurst disagreed politely. "They seem perfectly well-mannered, and Dr. Hart is certainly very respected."

"But they are not our equals, Cecilia," Lady Derring argued. "And I wonder the Dalyrmples do not fear for their own reputations; I know I could not _bear_ to be thought of as intimate with the family of a doctor."

"I wonder that they cannot see that no body wants them here," Miss Hammond said spitefully.

Anne kept silent; she could not agree with the ladies of the circle, but she had not the advantage of Lady Bathurst's elevated position, and could not be seen to disagree, particularly before Lady Catherine. It was fortunate indeed that Lady Catherine did not choose to mention Mr. Hart's impertinence in asking her daughter to dance—perhaps she did not realize he was Dr. Hart's son, or perhaps Anne's near miss was too embarrassing to her—but the damage was done already, as Anne raised her eyes to see the younger Hart brother standing quite close by, clearly within earshot and clearly having heard every word, looking as though he were frozen to the spot. The mortification on Robert Hart's face was unmistakable, and as Anne watched him, he turned his head slightly and saw her sitting there. Anne, though she herself had said nothing injurious, blushed a deep red; but then the current set ended, and Colonel Fitzwilliam, after escorting Miss Finch to her seat, arrived to claim Anne's hand for the cotillion.

* * *

Anne was grateful to be removed from the present situation, and could not help looking on Colonel Fitzwilliam as an unwitting savior. That gentleman seemed to have no idea of Anne's gratitude, and made light, pleasant conversation as they faced one another for the start of the dance. "I know it is a French dance," Colonel Fitzwilliam said genially, "but I confess I always enjoy the cotillion more than any other dance; it is so very merry."

Merry was not how Anne felt at that moment, but she smiled and nodded her agreement, then took a deep breath as the dance began. The first minute or so was a trial; then she was glad to discover that her extra practice served her well, for she remembered all of the steps and was even able to dance them with something approaching ease. Anne was by no means the most graceful dancer on the floor, but neither was she the clumsiest, and her perfect adequacy pleased her very much indeed.

Colonel Fitzwilliam discussed the places he had been in Bath, tidbits of news he had heard from his mother and brother, and his own pleasure at finding Miss Anne such a capable dancer, without requiring from her anything more than politely vague responses. Anne was even more grateful to him for this small mercy, for her mind was so occupied—with the dance, and with all of the various events of the evening—that she did not think herself at all equal to conversation. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not seem to mind her reticence; surely he was accustomed to it, for she had scarcely spoke ten words to him together in all the years they had known one another. Anne concentrated on the dance and did her best to allow Colonel Fitzwilliam's pleasant voice to wash over her. She would make more of an effort at good humor when they were sitting down to supper, she promised herself.

They had danced nearly a quarter of the set, and Anne had grown sufficiently confident of her ability to remember all the steps and changes, when she at last allowed herself the luxury of looking about the room. It was a large room, and there were several couples dancing, and a great many admirers watching. Clearly, Colonel Fitzwilliam was not alone in his appreciation for the cotillion. There was also beginning a subtle movement towards the doors, in anticipation of the coming supper; watching them, Anne realized that she was rather hungry as well, and hoped that the Dalyrmples had provided a better supper than had been offered at the last ball she had attended.

She turned to express this hope to Colonel Fitzwilliam, whom she was sure would agree, but as she did so her eyes fell onto Mr. Hart, who was dancing with Miss Cates (and, as Miss Rosamond had predicted, talking vigorously). His eyes met hers in the same moment, and he paused in the midst of whatever he had been saying, registering no small amount of surprise. Anne felt as though her stomach had dropped to the soles of her feet. She had quite forgotten, when Lady Catherine had made her false excuses for her, that Mr. Hart would surely see her dancing with Colonel Fitzwilliam. She was seized by a sudden foolish urge to run to him and explain—what? That her Ladyship had lied on her behalf, and Anne had done nothing to stop or correct her? The narrowing of Mr. Hart's eyes, visible even from this distance, nearly sealed her fate; yet Anne's breeding prevailed, and she swallowed hard as she made the next partner change. She supposed she could only be grateful that she and Mr. Hart were not dancing in the same group, for then she would have been forced to dance with him.

Fate seemed determine to add insult to Anne's injury, for as she changed partners, she was brought within an excellent view of every body sitting down on that side of the room. Miss Rosamond was still seated close to the dancers, and even gave Anne a bright smile as she danced past her, apparently unaware of Anne's slight towards her brother. Anne could only manage a rather weak nod in return. Lord Adlam had departed, and as Anne watched, Mr. Robert Hart emerged from the crowd and took the chair which that gentleman had vacated at Miss Rosamond's side. He caught Anne's eye, and did not smile; indeed, his hard expression quite matched that which Anne had just witnessed on the face of the elder Mr. Hart. Robert leaned close to his twin and said something to her—Anne was quite certain she knew what it was, and could not have been more thankful when she was obliged to change partners again, and dance towards the other side of the room, so that she would not have to see the pain that was sure to mar Miss Rosamond's pleasant features.

* * *

The dance ended. Anne bowed to Colonel Fitzwilliam and was pleased when he immediately took her arm and escorted her to her seat at Lady Catherine's side, rather than remaining on the dance-floor to chat with some of the other dancers, as several couples were doing. She did not think she could bear to meet with Mr. Hart at the present moment, and clung rather tightly to Colonel Fitzwilliam's arm as though he could protect her from Mr. Hart's anger and embarrassment—which _she_ had caused, she thought guiltily, even if she had not intended to do so. Guilt was quite a new emotion for Anne, and she detested it.

"You are not at all a poor dancer, Colonel Fitzwilliam," Lady Catherine observed, the moment Anne and her partner were within earshot. "I daresay you and Anne make a very fine couple; you were the only ones worth watching."

"You are too kind, madam," Colonel Fitzwilliam replied jovially, offering her his other arm. "It is all due to Miss de Bourgh, I assure you." The three of them took their places to proceed into supper.

"I saw you dancing with that other girl earlier," Lady Catherine went on as they walked. "A Miss Constance Finch, was it? I did not think her at all your equal; quite clumsy on her feet, not at all like Anne. It was very good of you to dance with her, for such a plain girl as that can never have very many gentlemen asking for her hand."

"On the contrary, while I would never compare Miss Finch to my dear cousin, I think her a fine dancer," Colonel Fitzwilliam said politely. Lady Catherine pursed her lips in displeasure.

"And how are you acquainted with Miss Finch, sir?" she asked acidly.

"Her cousin served as lieutenant colonel in my regiment, a year or two past; an excellent man and a superb officer. We grew to be very good friends. Miss Finch is an orphan, and was brought up in that family."

"How unfortunate," Lady Catherine said, not sounding as though she meant it.

"Indeed, but I understand she looks on her cousins as her own brothers and sisters, and her aunt and uncle as her parents. I doubt she could have asked for a more affectionate family."

They sat down to supper. Lady Catherine was bored by the present conversation, not knowing enough of Miss Finch or her affectionate family to denounce her any further, and so immediately set forth on a monologue of the news she had heard from Kent; she had requested Mr. Collins to write her a brief letter once per week, informing her of any and all events that took place in her parish, so that she might hold the reins even from such a great distance as Bath.

Anne took the opportunity to examine the room. The decorations were magnificent, the servants well-dressed, and the food, thankfully, smelled delicious; yet she paid little attention, for she only wanted to know where the Harts were sitting, so that she might avoid them. She was not seated so well as Lady Catherine might have wished, but of course there were more eminent ladies and gentlemen present, who must be given preference, and she blamed her poor seat for the fact that she could find no trace at all of the Harts or Miss Cates. Once or twice her eye was caught by a flash of yellow hair—but it inevitably proved to be some body else. Disappointed, yet somehow relieved, Anne set about to eating.

Supper passed with no further embarrassments. The food was excellent, and Anne ate so well that Lady Catherine rebuked her for her un-ladylike appetite: "It does not do for a well-brought up young woman to be seen bolting her food like some starved urchin!" Colonel Fitzwilliam courteously ignored this, and made such pleasant conversation that Anne, freed from the burden of a dance to demand her attention, felt quite comfortable. She was hardly vivacious, but she fulfilled the promise of good humor which she had made to herself.

And how shall the remainder of the evening be summarized? Anne danced twice more with Colonel Fitzwilliam, but was not asked by any other gentleman, for which she was rather grateful; she did not think herself equal to making spirited conversation with a man she did not know, particularly while dancing. She sat a long time with Lady Catherine in her friends, without hearing any thing interesting said. When Lady Catherine scolded her for sulking, she took a turn about the room, then escaped onto the terrace. The air had grown colder as the hour had grown later, and there were far fewer people enjoying the night; Anne was glad of her shawl, but returned to the warm ballroom after only a few minutes.

She went through the vestibule and peered into the card-room, then into the supper-room, where a few parties lingered. She realized, after a moment, that she was still looking for the Harts; but they were nowhere to be found, and at last Anne was forced to concede that they had surely left.

The de Bourghs took their leave shortly before one o' clock in the morning, Lady Catherine not being fond of very late nights. Her Ladyship indeed fell asleep in the carriage as they made their way back to the Royal Crescent; but Anne, though she was tired, was kept awake by the motion and therefore had plenty of time to think. Perhaps, she thought, the Harts had not been invited to stay for supper; or perhaps they had been so distressed by the conversation Robert had overheard, and by Anne's insult to Mr. Hart, that they had taken their leave early. She was not certain which excuse was more likely, but she knew which one she preferred.

It seemed the ball had been very balanced, if she were to use Mr. Hart's word—but of course, she would rather not use his word, for thinking of her very pleasant moments with Mr. Hart was quite painful when she dared to imagine hurt glare he had worn when he had seen her dancing. Yet she could not deny that his theory seemed quite applicable; if indeed one must always achieve balance, then the mixture of happiness and calamity she had experienced in one evening must surely have achieved it. She supposed it had been superior to her last ball, for at least things had _happened_—but _too much_ had happened, for all of the friendliness she had found with the Harts had been immediately undone not twenty minutes later. She supposed this was the exciting life of a fashionable young lady; yet she could not help feeling as though everything might have been so much easier if she could have kept the life she'd had a year ago, if she could have simply remained in Kent and taken her daily exercise in the Rosings gardens and waited for Mr. Darcy to propose. Anne sighed heavily, and was quite startled to find her throat rather thick and her eyes oddly wet.

The carriage stopped, and the lack of motion immediately roused Lady Catherine. "Have we arrived?" she demanded blearily, blinking several times. The footman opened the door and handed the two ladies down, and they proceeded into the house. "Well, Anne," Lady Catherine said decisively, "I declare this evening has been quite a success for you; _three_ dances, and the opportunity to grow quite intimate with several important ladies of rank. I do wish you had made more of an effort to speak with Miss Hammond, for it is said that her grandmother is a distant cousin of the Plantagenets, and the two of you are quite well suited to one another. I daresay you will surely become very close friends."

It may have been the late hour, mingling with the frustrations of the evening, that caused Anne, already halfway up the stairs, to turn and say wearily, "I daresay we will _not_, mother, for I have no fondness for Louisa Hammond. She is a silly gossip, and ought to hold her tongue."

"_Anne_!" Lady Catherine exclaimed, horrified. "I will not hear you speak so resentfully; it is not your place to criticize others."

"But it is yours," Anne replied—very quietly, for she was quite shocked at her own insolence; in the past, she might have thought such a thing, but she would never have given voice to it. She added, audibly, "Good night, mother. I will see you at breakfast."

She went into her room, and shut the door. Within half an hour she was undressed, and within half an hour more she was fast asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:** I'm sorry this chapter has taken so so so long. It's the end of the semester and college is taking over everything. Hopefully, I should have more free time after exams!

* * *

Anne's spirits had not much improved upon waking. Indeed, she woke much earlier than she had expected, in spite of her late bed-time, to find herself faced with a glorious blue sky and a sun that insisted upon shining brilliantly, though Anne could not have been less appreciative. She turned over onto one side, and then onto the other, in an attempt to fall back asleep. But Anne had undressed alone last night, and had neglected to draw the curtains, that generally being the duty of her maid; and now the room was simply too bright, and she could not keep her eyes closed. At last, she threw back the bedclothes and rose without much enthusiasm.

The house was quiet. Lady Catherine was still ensconced in her chambers, and only the servants were awake and moving about below-stairs in preparation for the coming day. Drawing her dressing gown about her, Anne moved to the window and gazed out over the wide green lawns that stretched before the Royal Crescent. The day was indeed very fine; surely a good many visits would be paid among the fashionable to-day, so that every body could give every body else their own particular account of the ball. Anne could not think of any thing more tiresome, than discussing to death a ball that had taken place not twelve hours before, with all of the same people who had been present, and who had all spent the entire ball talking to one another anyway. "How silly we all are," Anne muttered disagreeably to herself. She had no doubt that her Ladyship would insist on their taking part in these discussions, so that she could hear every body else's news of the ball and, more importantly, share her own opinions. Anne sighed heavily, her eyes still on the sun-lit landscape below her.

Lady Catherine had insisted that Miss de Bourgh was not to leave the house in the early mornings, much less without an escort, but Anne felt suddenly as though she would suffocate if she did not escape, at least for a short time. She estimated that her maid would not come to wake her for at least an hour or two, and Mrs. Jenkinson would not dream of disturbing Anne before breakfast; and so she found herself dressing clumsily and wrapping her shawl about her shoulders as she made her way quietly out of her room and down the front staircase.

She met with no body as she slipped through the front door and into the morning air. Her feet directed themselves towards the same walking-park where she had taken such early morning exercise on a similar fine day, though she had then been far more contented with the world in general. But of course thoughts of that pleasant morning stirred up thoughts of Mr. Hart, and of his brother and sisters, who were quite the last people Anne wanted to think of at the moment. She swallowed hard and attempted to concentrate only on the agreeable experiences of the ball: the feel Colonel Fitzwilliam's arm beneath her hand as he escorted her to supper, the glow of the chandeliers and the glitter of the jewels on the women's throats and arms, the taste of the fine dishes that had been served at supper, the kind smile on Rosamond Hart's face when she met Anne on the terrace—

Rosamond Hart's kind smile was almost immediately replaced by the stricken look of her twin brother as he stood listening to Lady Catherine and her friends insult his family, and Anne's heart sank again. No matter how she tried, she could not manage to be pleased with the outcome of the evening. _Very well_, she thought to herself, _if you are determined to be unhappy, you may as well try and decide what ought to be done; that, at least, may prove productive._

And yet it was a task easier set than met. Given their short acquaintance and relative positions in the world, Anne did not think a call or a note to the Harts entirely appropriate; after all, she must preserve some dignity. And what, indeed, would she say? _She_ had said nothing injurious of the family; _she_ had not lied to Mr. Hart about a broken foot, or whatever it was her Ladyship had claimed. She supposed she must depend upon meeting the Harts somewhere in Bath—the Pump-room, or perhaps Mostyn's book-shop—and must therefore prepare some sort of—explanation? Apology? Anne paused in her walk, frustrated, and looked back the way she had come. The Royal Crescent was a long way behind her. Anne turned about and began walking home again.

The only thing she truly understood was that she must indeed preserve the acquaintance. Despite having been without a friend for most of her life, Anne found the idea of losing the opportunity for friendship with the Hart family to be quite distressing. One or two of the other young ladies she had met in Bath were rather amiable, but overall she had found herself to have little, if anything, in common with them. And if her mother was truly serious about encouraging a particular friendship with the likes of Louisa Hammond—well. Anne should feel far easier knowing that she could at least discuss novels with the Hart sisters, when her more eminent acquaintances proved trying. However low-born Rosamond Hart was, at least she was likable.

But of course, in order to have such security, Anne must repair the damage that had surely been wrought at the Dalyrmples' ball. And that returned her to her first consideration, which had been, simply, how? Anne had never before felt herself to be in the wrong about any thing, and found the sensation entirely unsettling.

A thought struck her suddenly, and she raised her head to gaze about her as she walked. How simple it would be, if she were to meet Mr. Hart this morning as she had before, and have the opportunity to explain everything to him now—how simple, and yet how terrifying, for Anne found the thought of facing Mr. Hart a good deal more intimidating than the thought of facing his sister. She was not so certain that she could obtain Mr. Hart's forgiveness—she feared he might have something of a resentful temper. And yet it seemed she would not be obliged to take the risk, in any case, for none of the other people in the park were familiar to her; Mr. Hart was not there. Anne sighed, and continued towards the Royal Crescent.

The walk had at least allowed her some time to think, and had afforded some clarity. Anne knew what she ought to do, even if she was not entirely certain how to go about it. But the muddle of her thoughts had further clarified her own inexpertise in this area, and Anne realized quite suddenly that what she truly needed was sound advice.

* * *

Lady Catherine de Bourgh was the sort of woman who was only too pleased to bestow her advice upon others, whether those others happened to be willing or not; yet she was also the sort of woman who is not given to regretting her own behavior. Indeed, Anne was not certain that her mother had ever considered any offense she may have done any body to be worthy of her apologies or explanations, though her Ladyship frequently understood other people to be owing an apology to _her_ for some slight or other. It was for this reason that Anne decided Mrs. Jenkinson instead must be her first advisor on this matter.

The opportunity arrived shortly after breakfast. While Lady Catherine was occupied in giving the days' orders to the staff, Anne seated herself in the drawing-room with a bit of needlework in which she had really no interest; Mrs. Jenkinson took up her faithful place by her young lady's side within moments, rising only to adjust the angle of the fire-screen to ensure Miss de Bourgh's comfort.

Anne puzzled for a moment over how to approach the issue; but she had never bothered much with subtlety, and elected to speak as plainly as possible. "Mrs Jenkinson," she began, "I should like to ask you a question."

Mrs. Jenkinson turned to her mistress with an expression of mingled pleasure and apprehension. Neither of the de Bourghs had ever before shown much interest in any thing Mrs. Jenkinson had to say.

"Suppose you were a young lady of rank," Anne went on, "and you had an acquaintance whom you found very agreeable, and whom you wished to call a friend; but suppose that before you had reached such a point in your relationship, you said or did something which offended this acquaintance—hurt them, in fact," she added, rather guiltily.

Mrs. Jenkinson looked scandalized. "Miss de Bourgh, I could not conceive of your being _capable_ of hurting another person in any way; you are too gracious, too kind-hearted, and every body who meets you must think so."

"But suppose," Anne persisted, "that this offense was of an unintentional nature—perhaps that it was not an act you yourself had committed, but that some body connected with you had committed that you knew was wrong, and which you did not attempt to correct."

The good nurse looked quite perplexed, and Anne, with a sigh, attempted to simplify. "Disregard my last statement, and your assessment of my character," she ordered. "My question is this: if one has committed an error, however unintentional, that has hurt her relationship with some person, or persons, whom she finds very agreeable, how does she atone, so that they may be friends?"

"I suppose she must apologize," Mrs. Jenkinson said slowly. "But Miss de Bourgh, really—if this person, or persons, is the sort to be offended by some thing which you did not mean to do, then perhaps they are not at all worthy of your friendship. I must ask: is this person another member of the privileged classes, like yourself, or is she of unequal standing, and therefore undoubtedly jealous of the greater rewards which a titled lady like yourself must claim?"

Anne could hardly think any of the Harts to be jealous; indeed, they hardly seemed to notice her greater rank, or at least had never referred to it. But she could hardly mention this to Mrs. Jenkinson, who would of course consider the Harts thoroughly disrespectful, and instead said sharply, "Her rank is of no matter. I merely ask about the proper method of making an apology; I have never made one before, and am uncertain as to how it is done."

"If indeed you _must_ apologize, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson said heavily, sounding as though she would much rather Miss de Bourgh did not, "then I suppose you might explain yourself in a kindly-written note, which I am sure you are capable of, for you have such an elegant hand. Or, if you should prefer not to wait upon a response, or if you perceive the offense to have been grave indeed, you may pay a visit to the injured party, and give them your apologies in person, which should appease any reasonable lady or gentleman."

"You do not think such a thing undignified?"

"Hypothetically speaking, Miss de Bourgh, if the occasion warrants it, I suppose it would not be too improper. But I would beg you," Mrs. Jenkinson said earnestly, "you must not—_abase_ yourself for the friendship of one who is not worthy of you." She paused for a moment, and then, with a very knowing look, went on, "Her Ladyship mentioned to me your assessment of Miss Hammond, which she seemed to think very uncharitable indeed; but really, Miss de Bourgh, if this is the injury which is worrying you, I must insist that you be easy on this point, though Miss Hammond is such a worthy connexion, and her grandmother is said to have been a Plantagenet. Neither Lady Catherine nor myself would ever think of mentioning the matter to the young lady in question. For indeed," she said, laughing, "young ladies of your class are for-ever speaking ill of one another, when they are in private; it is rather a mark of friendship! Though of course I daresay no body could ever speak ill of you, Miss de Bourgh," she added hurriedly.

Anne had indeed quite forgotten of her uncharitable description of Louisa Hammond, and flushed a little at the reminder; but she could not regret her words, nor think them untrue. If Mrs. Jenkinson preferred to think Miss Hammond the object of her hypothetical apology, so much the better, for it would save her the trouble of having to come up with some other lie.

They were interrupted at that point, as Lady Catherine swept through the door and took her accustomed seat at the top of the room. Anne was thus left with Mrs. Jenkinson's suggestions of writing a note or paying a call—both ideas she had considered herself, but dismissed as below her station. She supposed she would have no choice but to consult her mother.

They spent the morning receiving callers: Mrs. Godard and her daughter, Mrs. Dillingham and the twins, Lady Hargreve and an unexpectedly large party that included her daughter, her sister, her niece, and three or four cousins. As Anne had predicted, all any body wanted to discuss was the ball, specifically who had danced with whom and how many times, who had been seen with such and such a person, who had looked lovely and, more interestingly, who had looked positively ghastly.

"I could not approve of Mrs. Morgan's dress at all," Lady Hargreve said eagerly. "She is but a very young wife, it is true, and so recently married, but she still ought to know how to dress as a married woman—the neckline was positively shocking! I wonder if her husband was quite embarrassed."

"I am so very glad we did not dress alike," one of the Miss Dillinghams (Anne could never remember which was which) declared triumphantly. "It was charming when we were four, perhaps, but at seventeen it is ridiculous! Did you see the Miss Stewarts, Miss de Bourgh? They are twins as well, and nearly our same age, and they dressed to match! How silly—how very gauche! I wonder every body was not laughing at them!"

"I daresay there were some hearts broken last night," Mrs. Godard sighed happily. "Of course there was that business, which every body is talking about, with Miss Hammond and Lord Adlam; how she _crowed_ about him! But he seemed quite taken with that other girl, that physician's daughter, of all people. And then of course there was some unpleasantness with Miss Barnes, who met with Mr. Coleman last night while she was dancing with Lord Perry's younger son—of course Miss Barnes and Mr. Coleman used to be engaged, you know, or had some sort of understanding—Mrs. Alexander swore to me that there was nearly a brawl, but of course she exaggerates every thing. Although I have heard that Mr. Coleman was quite passionately in love with Miss Barnes, and very jealous, and that he was sunk dreadfully low when she broke the engagement. Silly girl! He has ten thousand a year; but then I suppose she has her heart set on a title." (Lady Catherine, who had also had her heart set on a title, and had gotten one, looked very smug indeed at this last comment.)

After the Godards left, there was a brief space of time in which no body else arrived, and in which Mrs. Jenkinson was sent out of the room on some errand or other, and Anne found herself alone with Lady Catherine. They sat in silence for a moment before Anne, steeling herself, put her question to her mother.

"Your Ladyship," she began hesitantly, "there is some little matter, on which I would ask your guidance."

"Of course, Anne," Lady Catherine responded promptly. "I live to help others, as you know; I am widely understood to be an exceedingly helpful person, who can provide excellent advice on any occasion, to any body who needs it. Have you not very often heard Mr. Collins speak of my kind patronage? Do you think I would deny such a resource to my own daughter?"

"Certainly not, your Ladyship," Anne said patiently, "and that is why I seek your counsel now. I believe I have hurt some body, without meaning to, and it is an acquaintance I should very much like to preserve; now how shall I do so?"

"You have never hurt any body, Anne," Lady Catherine said scornfully. "I daresay you could not even if you meant to. You have not the necessary strong character; it is not your fault, of course, for your health has always obliged you to remain quite delicate in every way."

"But I think I _have_ hurt some body, your Ladyship," Anne insisted. "Have you any advice on the subject of apologies, or explanations?"

"I have no taste for apologies. I think them foolish and unbecoming, and they always sound rather too much like pleading to my ears. If you have hurt some body without meaning to, then it is not your fault and you have done nothing wrong; and if this acquaintance of yours is offended, then they are a fool."

"Yet I still feel as though I ought to make some redress," Anne said, growing rather impatient, though of course she dared not show it. "After all, I do believe my acquaintance to have been quite mortified, which might make future meetings rather awkward."

"How ridiculous of them," Lady Catherine said briskly. "If they will insist on ending all communication with you because of their own embarrassment, which you had nothing to do with, then they are not worthy of your acquaintance. I have given you my answer, Anne; will you insist on asking me again?"

"I must, your Ladyship, for my question is really about _how_ to apologize for something, rather than whether or not I ought. Have you any advice upon that point?"

Lady Catherine looked very irritated indeed, and said, "If it must be done, I maintain it ought to be done quickly, efficiently, without any sentimentality; not in a note, I daresay, for then it is too tempting to embellish, and for one's prose to grow quite flowery and unseemly. One must be quite practical in these matters, for it is indeed important to maintain one's better connexions, as a matter of course. Have your acquaintance visit you here, or," she shuddered slightly, "call on them, if you must, if their rank is greater than yours and they are therefore deserving of the greater courtesy. But, Anne, if this is a merely sentimental matter, I advise you to put it entirely out of your mind. Friends, especially intimate ones, are meant to be useful."

This was all Lady Catherine had to say on the subject. Anne thanked her for her kind attention and cast her mind about for some other person she could ask—someone, she thought, perhaps less biased in her own favor.

Yet she could not discount all of the advice she had received. The matter of rank aside, popular opinion seemed to be in favor of paying a call, for then she should not have to wait for a response, nor be disappointed if one did not come. Of course she could not deny that the idea seemed quite undignified to her, and Mrs. Jenkinson had described such a thing as "abasing herself"; but hadn't Mrs. Jenkinson also conceded that it would be quite suitable, if she perceived that the insult was grave enough? And—Anne swallowed hard as Robert Hart's horrified blush, Theodore Hart's narrowed eyes, swept into her mind—the insult did indeed seem to have been quite grave, even if it was intentional. She resolved to pose her question to one more person, and then, if the answer was the same, to pay a visit to the Harts to-morrow. After all, she would rather the matter be resolved soon.

* * *

Colonel Fitzwilliam had been invited to dine at the Royal Crescent that evening, and arrived in a very fine mood, full of animated conversation—which, Anne was glad to discover, did not focus solely on the events of the ball. He answered Lady Catherine's questions with due geniality: he had stayed only an hour later than the de Bourghs themselves, had danced only one more dance with Miss Finch again (Lady Catherine sniffed contemptuously), had met with several admirals and captains and lords and other gentlemen to whose surnames Lady Catherine listened quite contentedly, had spent only the slightest amount of time in the card-room, and had seen nothing scandalous. This account of the evening's proceedings completed, Colonel Fitzwilliam cheerfully began talking about other coming events in the city, the fine weather, the latest news from his family in London and Derbyshire, and other innocuous topics. These things were discussed with a certain determination, which convinced Anne that he, like she, had heard quite enough about the Dalyrmples' ball.

The party adjourned to the drawing-room after supper. In the absence of superior entertainment, Mrs. Jenkinson was banished to the pianoforte, and Lady Catherine spent the next several minutes criticizing her aloud, which Mrs. Jenkinson appeared to consider an honor. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the room, Anne motioned, as subtly as she knew how, for Colonel Fitzwilliam to follow her. He approached and sat at her side, his brows knit in an expression of worry.

"Are you well, cousin?" he asked kindly. "You looked rather anxious just now."

"I am very well," Anne replied, touched by his concern. "I only wished to speak to you privately for a moment, and I fear we would be unable to hear one another, between the music and my mother." She bit her lip as soon as the words were out, afraid she might have said something rather ill-advised, but Colonel Fitzwilliam merely chuckled.

"I fear you are right, cousin. Yet I do hope this need for privacy is not due to some unpleasantness of topic."

"Oh—no," Anne said uncertainly. "That is, it is not _pleasant_, but it is not—I mean—" She paused, collecting herself. "It is merely some small question, on which I have nearly made up my mind, but I desire another opinion before I am sure."

Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her that he would be happy to provide it, and Anne posed the question to him in the same vague terms to which she had posed it to her other advisors, mentioning no names or specifics. Her cousin considered for a moment before responding:

"I confess, Miss Anne, I could not imagine you ever hurting any body, intentionally or otherwise."

"That is just what Mrs. Jenkinson and Lady Catherine said," Anne told him with a small smile. "But you must imagine it, for I am afraid it has happened."

"Well, then, if it has happened—of course you must apologize, if you are truly serious about maintaining the acquaintance on amiable terms. If you fear the offense has been severe, I would recommend meeting with the other party, and as soon as ever it can be arranged, for there is nothing worse than allowing such a wound to fester, if you will pardon the vulgarity of such a phrase."

His choice of words was indeed unpleasant, but everything else was said with so much more real understanding that Anne felt exceedingly grateful to him. "You do not think," she ventured, "that a note might be perhaps more dignified?"

"More dignified it may be, but less thoughtful, for a note necessarily creates distance. Forgive me for asking, Miss Anne, but is this a person whom you wish to keep as a friend, or as a connexion?"

Lady Catherine had hardly allowed there to be any difference between the two; yet Anne immediately replied that she wished this person to be a friend.

"Then I daresay a note is the wrong choice, for it give the impression that you did not have the time or inclination to visit; if this is true, then by all means, write. Otherwise, I should think a visit to be more in the true spirit of friendship."

He gave her a very gentle smile, which Anne hesitantly returned. She cast a glance at Lady Catherine, who had risen from her chair and was standing over Mrs. Jenkinson at the pianoforte, giving instructions very confidently indeed for one who had never learned to play. It seemed Anne and her cousin would have another moment, at least, to themselves; turning back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, Anne dared to ask,

"Will you promise not to think me very foolish indeed, if I confess that the prospect of paying a visit is rather—rather frightening to me?"

"Certainly not. It is only natural to feel apprehensive when meeting with some body whom you feel you have wronged. It is a feeling I have had to face more than once, to my great regret; yet imagine how relieved you will feel, when the apology is over and accepted (as I have no doubt yours will be), and you and your friend have returned to the enjoyable companionship that you formerly enjoyed. Believe me, Miss Anne, you will be glad when you have done it; it is only the anticipation that is, as you say, rather frightening. But, cousin, as the Bard wrote, 'If it were done when 'tis done, then t'were well it were done quickly.'"

"Are you two entirely in one another's confidence?" Lady Catherine demanded suddenly, having returned to her chair. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, come sit by me here; what are you and Anne talking of so seriously?"

"Nothing of consequence, your Ladyship," Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her jovially, doing as Lady Catherine had bidden him. "Did you not say there was some news from Kent, involving our good friends the Collinses?"

The news was that Mrs. Collins was expecting. Lady Catherine, of course, was less interested in Mrs. Collins and the baby than in all of the possible improvements that she herself might condescend to make to Hunsford Parsonage in preparation for the new addition, and all of the buying that must be done, which of course she, being a mother already, must oversee, for Mrs. Collins was sure to be entirely at a loss. "Mrs. Collins does not have quite the generous resources I did, of course," she admitted complacently, "but I am quite sure that if she mentions my name at any of the shops I have suggested, she will be treated very well indeed."

The evening continued in this fashion. Anne scarcely listened to a word her mother spoke, for she was considering Colonel Fitzwilliam's advice. She could not help thinking, despite her mother's claims that she lived to help others, that her cousin's counsel had been rather more helpful; out of the three parties asked, he had most seemed to understand Anne's dilemma and her wishes. And he had never once brought up the subject of rank! How variant were the attitudes and opinions within her own family, she mused. She wondered what Mr. Darcy would have said, if she had asked him—but then she did not think she would have had the courage to ask him.

She retired that evening feeling rather reassured, yet apprehensive; for there was no doubt in her mind now that she must call on the Harts to-morrow, and though she tried to do as Colonel Fitzwilliam had said, and think only of the relief that must follow her apology, she could not help the anxious knot in her stomach.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, Anne announced her intention to visit a draper's shop in Widcombe. "I spoke with Lady Wilbraham at the ball, and she assured me it is the very finest in Bath," she declared, as enthusiastically as she could manage. "She made me promise to visit and then see if I did not agree with her; may I not take the carriage, your Ladyship?"

Her Ladyship was not entirely pleased with this resurgence of Anne's interest in wandering Bath, but Anne's reference to Lady Wilbraham (who was the daughter of an earl, and engaged to a viscount) was more appeasing to her, and she gave her permission without much resistance. The knot in Anne's stomach grew a bit tighter.

She and Mrs. Jenkinson set out for Widcombe shortly after breakfast, during the regular visiting-hours, for Anne insisted that she must visit the shop early before it became too crowded. The drive was rather shorter than she had remembered; Anne stopped the driver before he reached Hart House, on a street full of small shops. "I am sure it is just down there," Anne said to Mrs. Jenkinson. "I believe I can see the sign."

They walked a short distance in the direction Anne had indicated, which she believed was towards Hart House. Upon their passing a small café, Anne suggested that Mrs. Jenkinson wait for her as she had before; "For I think I shall take a very long time, and you have no pleasure in shopping," she said firmly.

Yet Mrs. Jenkinson would not be so easily persuaded. "This is an unfamiliar neighborhood to us, Miss de Bourgh, and I should not like for you to be lost; I would rather accompany you."

Anne frowned. "The shop is just there, I am sure of it, and I should very much like to be alone, for then I shall not feel hurried. I quite loathe feeling hurried; it makes me very anxious."

Mrs. Jenkinson quailed somewhat, but was not dissuaded. "I would be much more comfortable, Miss de Bourgh, if I could be certain you knew where you were going—not, of course, that I doubt your ability to navigate this neighborhood," she added quickly. "But I should very much like to be sure."

After some debate, they agreed that Mrs. Jenkinson would accompany Anne to the shop, see her safely inside, and then return to the café to wait and to enjoy her cup of chocolate. Anne was rather relieved at this short delay, and yet she was growing ever more anxious; she wished very much that this encounter could be done quickly. And, indeed, what if she arrived at Hart House only to find Miss Rosamond paying a call? Did the families of physicians keep the same hours as the gentry? Perhaps she had misjudged every thing. She was making every effort to appear entirely nonchalant, that Mrs. Jenkinson might not grow suspicious—for she might take Anne's anxiety as a sign that the young lady was ill or, worse yet, might understand her eagerness to be alone as an indication that she was here in Widcombe for a tryst with some gentleman—yet Anne felt as though her uneasiness must be clear to every body who passed her, and especially to her loyal nurse, who had spent most of every day with her for several years.

At last, they reached a likely-looking draper's shop, and Anne exclaimed her delight as they hurried inside. It was not quite the sort of place to which she might have been sent by Lady Wilbraham, or indeed any body who had been at the Dalyrmples' ball, but there were some pretty bolts of cotton and muslin, and a few fine silks. Anne made a show of browsing, and pretended to be very much taken with one or two prints that she found. "I declare this is indeed the best shop in Bath," she avowed. "And you see, Mrs. Jenkinson, I was not lost; I never was."

"Of course not, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson said placidly. "I never had any doubts."

Anne passed her a few coins from her purse, and her companion moved towards the door, reminding her charge of the café's exact location and its name several times as she was prodded out the door. "You may take as long as you wish, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson assured her, "but you did tell Lady Catherine that you would return the carriage by eleven, and that you would visit the Pump-room today; of course I am sure you have not forgotten."

Anne replied that she had not forgotten; Mrs. Jenkinson thanked her very profusely for the coins, and for the chocolate which she was about to buy; then her eye was caught by some muslin, and she came in again to examine it more closely. This took several minutes, which to Anne seemed very long indeed. At length, growing impatient, Anne said (quietly, so the proprietor did not hear) that she thought the color rather plain, and the print rather unsightly, and insisted that she should never be seen in such a drab thing. These criticisms convinced Mrs. Jenkinson, who declared it the ugliest pattern she had ever seen and, repeating again the location and name of the café, Anne's promises to Lady Catherine, and her own gracious thanks for the money and for the chocolate, she at last left the draper's shop and made her way down the street again. If Mrs. Jenkinson suspected any underlying cause to Anne's hurry, she did not show it.

Anne waited until Mrs. Jenkinson had been gone for a minute or so, then dared to look out of the large shop window in time to see her nurse step into the café they had passed. She waited another minute for safety, then slipped outside and began walking.

* * *

She could not remember the exact location of Hart House, having travelled the route only once, and then by carriage; yet the street she was on seemed familiar, and she supposed it made sense for her to keep walking on it. However, the further she walked, the less familiar it seemed, until Anne was quite convinced that she ought to have made a turn several paces back, and reversed direction. She spied a cross-street that looked promising, and turned onto it; it was full of pleasant, comfortable houses that were rather like Hart House in appearance, although she was certain none of them were Hart House itself. There was another cross-street, and she turned again, but was not sure if she was correct in doing so. Perhaps she ought to return to the original street—if she turned left again, it should lead her back towards the shops. Or was she meant to turn right? Anne stopped, looking around her rather fearfully. Her anxiety over the imminent visit was entirely superseded now by her anxiety of feeling entirely lost, for it struck her then that she had no idea where she was, where Hart House was, or where Mrs. Jenkinson was.

It was very wrong of her, she realized belatedly, to be walking alone: foolish, and also improper, for it was past the early morning hour when a young lady's taking a solitary walk could be considered at all appropriate. She had not considered this breach of decorum when planning her visit to Hart House—accustomed as she was to the private and home-bound life she led at Rosings Park, she rarely had cause there to even consider stepping outside the bounds of propriety. Now she found herself wishing she had not so easily given Mrs. Jenkinson "the slip". What would any body passing by think of her? Anne adjusted her bonnet so her face was less visible; she hoped no word of this would ever reach Lady Catherine.

She kept walking, half-hoping that the street might take her up a steep hill, which would give her a view over all of Widcombe, but how would that help if she could not remember which street she needed, or even which house she was looking for? She wished she had brought a map, but of course it might have been quite useless, for she had never before attempted to read a map and was not entirely certain how one did so. There was a church; had they driven past a church before? Anne's visit to Hart House seemed so long ago that she could not imagine _how_ she had expected she would remember its exact location; her plan had clearly been flawed from the beginning. She took a right turn, then a left, but nothing looked familiar. And so many of the houses looked just the same! How did any body ever find any thing in Widcombe?

The sound of footsteps behind her startled her, and Anne turned round to see a gentleman walking quickly down the street in her direction. She clutched her reticule tightly. Surely he would not attempt to rob her, for it was broad daylight, and this was Widcombe, not St. Giles (of which one heard such stories)—yet one could never be certain. But as she watched, the gentleman opened the gate of one of the houses and hurried inside, never noticing her.

Letting out a breath, Anne kept walking. She took a left, hoping it would lead her back towards the shops, but was disappointed. She turned around again, but could not find the street she had been on a moment ago. She made another left turn, hoping perhaps to move in a circle, but was disappointed again; for here was a small walking-park, where there had not been a walking-park before. Near tears, Anne entered the park and took a seat on one of the stone benches. With an utter disregard for appearance, brought on by exhaustion and desperation, Anne allowed her posture to sink and rested her head in her hands. How she loathed cities!

"Miss de Bourgh?"

Anne stiffened and sat upright, adjusting her bonnet. There before her stood Rosamond and Juliet Hart, with expressions of honest concern. Anne felt a tear slide down her cheek and immediately grew red, brushing it away crossly; she did not think it possible to be any more embarrassed, or any more grateful for a familiar face.

"Are you unwell, Miss de Bourgh?" Miss Rosamond asked, sitting down beside her and looking at her anxiously. "Forgive me, but you do not look at all well. Are you taken ill? Have you a fever?"

"I am not ill, Miss Hart," Anne said shakily. "I was—" The absurdity of the situation struck her, and she almost laughed. "I must confess, I was looking for you."

"For me?" Miss Rosamond stared at her. "Miss de Bourgh, you really look quite faint. Our house is just there; please come in and allow me to fetch you some water. Will you walk with us?"

Anne rose, and allowed each of the Hart sisters to take an arm. Hart House was, as Miss Rosamond had promised, very close; indeed, its back windows looked out over the little park. Anne supposed she must have been going in the correct direction all the while, but of course she would not have realized it.

None of them spoke. Now that she was lost no longer, Anne felt the guilty knot in her stomach return, and wondered whether Miss Rosamond had any desire to speak to her at all, or ever would again.

Hart House was as pleasant and comfortable as Anne remembered. This time she was directed into the sitting-room, adjacent to Dr. Hart's study and offering the same large windows with the same charming view of the street below. It still being fairly early, the sun was flooding into the room, casting an agreeable morning glow over every thing. Miss Rosamond deposited Anne on the settee, pulling off her own bonnet and spencer as she did so. Miss Juliet was dispatched to the kitchen for a cup of water—"Or would you prefer tea?" she asked earnestly; Anne, still feeling rather faint, chose tea.

"Should you prefer to be closer to the fire?" Miss Rosamond asked kindly. "Or are you too warm? I can move the screen if you like."

She sounded very much like Mrs. Jenkinson, but with the tone of a capable hostess rather than an ingratiating servant. Anne insisted that she was quite comfortable, and would be perfectly restored as soon as she had rested for a moment, and drunk some tea. She could not help remembering her last visit to Hart House, when Mrs. Jenkinson had been so outraged at the lack of courtesy prevalent in the household. And Anne, too, had been quite put out! Every thing seemed quite different now; she could not remember why she had been so angry in the first place.

"My father is not home, Miss de Bourgh, or I would ask him to examine you," Miss Rosamond said regretfully. "Should you like to wait for him? Or I can call Robert, if you like—he is studying medicine as well, you know."

"That isn't necessary," Anne assured her. "I promise you, I am well; but I was lost, just now, and I confess rather frightened, and I suppose I am merely—overcome."

"I am very sorry to hear it," Miss Rosamond said, taking a seat across from her. Miss Juliet entered with the tea, apologizing for the plain china; "For we weren't expecting any body to-day, and did not set out the good tea service," she explained. Miss Rosamond hushed her.

Anne supposed that she might have been offended, on her last visit, at the plain china, for it was indeed very plain; but at the moment she could only be grateful, and took a long draught of the tea, which was quite the right temperature and tasted better than any tea she had ever drunk before—though she supposed that might again be due to her current state of mind.

Setting the cup down, she regarded the anxious faces across from her, and felt again the urge to laugh. "How absurd this all is," she said, though she did not intend to say it aloud, and blushed again when she realized she had. "Excuse me; I only meant that I came all this way looking for Hart House, because I was hoping to call on you, Miss Hart; but I grew quite hopelessly lost."

"Well," Miss Rosamond smiled, "you are here now, Miss de Bourgh, so I suppose 'all's well that ends well'. I am very glad you have come, though I am sorry you lost your way. Widcombe can be rather disorienting to those who don't know it well."

"Indeed," Anne said softly. She was quite surprised at Miss Rosamond's amiability; had her brothers told her nothing of what had occurred at the ball? Had she been worrying over nothing? But not nothing, she reminded herself; even if Miss Rosamond had forgiven her already, she did not think she could be easy now, after hearing Colonel Fitzwilliam's advice, until she had made some explanation. And then there was the question of the Mr. Harts, who were surely offended even if their sister was not. Anne bit her lip unconsciously. Miss Rosamond noticed the gesture.

"Miss de Bourgh," she said carefully, "is every thing quite all right? Forgive me; you seem uneasy."

It was the best opening Anne could expect, but she did not know how appropriate it would be to address the matter in front of Miss Juliet. She cast a glance at the younger girl, who looked at her and then at her sister. Seemingly taking a cue from the latter, she stood, curtsied, and excused herself. Miss Rosamond regarded Anne expectantly. Anne swallowed hard and looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.

"Miss Hart," she began, feeling thoroughly ill at ease, "I have come to speak to you about the Dalyrmples' ball, and some events which took place there, for which I feel I owe you an explanation."

She risked a glance at Miss Rosamond. The young lady was still watching her expectantly, yet Anne thought she saw a certain recognition in her eyes.

"I do not know whether your brother mentioned to you what he overheard; there were some ladies, with whom I was seated, who were discussing your family in a—a very spiteful manner." She paused. "Your brother Robert was standing quite close by, though I do not think they were aware of his presence—but this does not excuse their actions, or I suppose I ought to say their words. I suppose I have really come to apologize, for I believe I was the only person among them who is really acquainted with you or your family, and I did not defend you as I ought to have done."

She looked up again. Miss Rosamond's gaze was steady, but not punishing. "I believe they were primarily motivated by jealousy," she added apprehensively. "At least, Miss Hammond was, and I suppose her mother as well. But that is only my opinion."

There was a pause, and then Miss Rosamond said "Jealousy?" in a very incredulous tone.

"You were dancing with Lord Adlam," Anne explained hesitantly, uncertain whether the gossip of the _ton_ ought to be shared with one who was not of their number. "Miss Hammond had told every body that he was very much in love with her, and she was quite displeased that he seemed so taken with you."

To her surprise, Miss Rosamond gave a little laugh. "He was only taken with me because I happened to ask him if he was a sportsman, and it was a topic on which he was most eager to communicate. I daresay he was quite disappointed when he discovered neither my father nor my brothers were particularly avid fox-hunters, and I therefore had nothing to contribute." She laughed again. "But I am very sorry for poor Miss Hammond, for it cannot be pleasant to think some body is in love with you, and then see him enjoying the company of some body else, especially when that person is so unequal to you in fortune and attractions!"

It was the first time Anne had ever heard Miss Rosamond make even an oblique reference to fortune, and she was not entirely certain of the proper reply. Miss Rosamond met her eyes again.

"I thank you for your explanation, Miss de Bourgh," she said calmly. "My brother did indeed mention the incident to me, and I will not say I was not hurt. I confess I had very little desire to remain any longer at the ball after that. But I do not hold you responsible, Miss de Bourgh, for the actions of your companions, for Robert did mention that you had said nothing unkind."

"I said nothing at all; I cannot help feeling as though I ought to have said _some_thing," Anne repeated guiltily. Miss Rosamond shook her head.

"I have no right to expect such a defense from you, Miss de Bourgh.—I should like to think we are on friendly terms, but we are not so intimately acquainted that I might expect you to defend my honor to your friends."

There was a long pause, before Miss Rosamond spoke again.

"It was not a wholly unexpected event, at any rate," she said slowly. "I knew we were not wanted there; of course I understood that Lady Dalyrmple intended the invitation as a courtesy more than any thing else. I suppose it was very foolish of me to wish to go—for I _was_ the one who insisted, Miss de Bourgh. You must not think my brothers had any interest at all in attending; they were kindly humoring me. So I suppose it is truly my fault if Robert was upset by what he overheard, and if I in turn was hurt by his telling."

Anne had never before felt any desire to comfort any body, but Miss Rosamond's tone was so regretful that she felt quite uncomfortable, and cast about for something to say. Yet she could think of nothing but "I daresay Lady Dalyrmple meant her invitation to be accepted. It is not you who was in the wrong, Miss Hart."

Miss Rosamond gave her a disbelieving smile. "Neither was I in the right, then. How thoughtless of me, to expect us to fit in as though we were at a public assembly!" She took a breath. "I heard a rumor, Miss de Bourgh, that one of the ladies was wearing a gown which had cost upwards of eight hundred pounds. The gown I was wearing used to belong to my sister Helena, and I altered and embellished it a great deal in order to make it presentable."

Anne was confused by this sudden change of topic, and her face must have reflected it, for Miss Rosamond immediately went on: "It is a vulgar metaphor, but you must see my point. There is a difference, Miss de Bourgh, between my place, and the place of every body else who attended that ball, and it was thoroughly ridiculous of me to ever think that I belonged there."

She looked so completely vexed that Anne was quite at a loss. She had never before heard Miss Rosamond speak so openly; it was quite a far removal from her usual cheerful conversation. Indeed, it was the first time Anne could ever remember any body speaking to her with such candor, and in spite of her awkwardness, she could not help feeling a slight thrill.

Yet Miss Rosamond recovered herself within a moment, and looked at Anne again. "I am terribly sorry, Miss de Bourgh. I am sure I sounded very bitter just now, and you must believe that that is not at all the way I feel. Indeed, I seem to be for-ever telling you things about my life in which you can have no interest, and it is not at all proper. Shall we perhaps return to a pleasanter topic?"

"Please make yourself easy, Miss Hart," Anne said timidly. "I have come here to apologize to you, and you must not begin apologizing to me. Indeed," she confessed, blushing, "I am rather flattered that you trust me so well with your confidence, in spite of our short acquaintance." She paused, considering her words. "I believe your feelings are perfectly natural, for you must indeed be quite offended by the insults which your brother overheard and described to you, and you cannot be expected to feel entirely charitable towards the other guests with such unpleasant associations fresh in your mind."

It was Anne's first attempt at empathy, and she was not at all certain of her success. Yet Miss Rosamond looked very grateful, and said, "Thank you very much for your kind understanding; it is really quite a relief to me."

They sat in relatively comfortable silence for a moment. Anne sipped her tea, feeling quite proud of herself and, as her cousin had predicted, thankful indeed that the awkward moment of her apology had passed. She searched her mind for another subject on which to converse; yet Miss Rosamond, who had been looking as though she were thinking very hard about some thing, said quite unexpectedly,  
"I suppose you will also wish to address the matter of my brother Theodore, and his asking you to dance."

Anne very nearly choked on her tea. Miss Rosamond, hurrying to her aid, grew very red, and begged Miss de Bourgh's pardon. "That was extremely impertinent of me; yet I thought 't'were well it were done quickly', for you cannot have been looking to that conversation any more than to the first, and surely you would rather have it over and done with."

Regaining her breath, Anne regarded her hostess with very wide eyes. "I had hoped Mr. Hart had not mentioned that incident to you," she said quietly.

"He did; though I suppose it was wrong of him to do so. Theo is not often angry," she said thoughtfully, "but when he is, he cannot keep his feelings to himself; he has always been very forthright."

_A family trait, perhaps_, Anne thought. Miss Rosamond continued.

"I am very sorry if I have made you uncomfortable, Miss de Bourgh. Pray do not feel pressed to explain yourself to me, for I have already made up my mind that you had no intention of slighting my brother, and that whatever reasons you had for your conduct were justifiable indeed."

"You are very kind, Miss Hart," Anne said nervously. "But I fear my reasons are not so very justifiable. My mother was—displeased with Mr. Hart's attention, and told him I could not dance because I was injured. Her interference rather surprised me, and I did not think to make any reply before Mr. Hart took his leave. And then—and then he saw me dancing with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I fear he was quite cross," she finished, faltering. "I am very sorry to have insulted him."

"Your apology is accepted and appreciated," said a voice, but it was not Rosamond Hart's. The two ladies on the settee turned to see Mr. Hart standing at the doorway, looking—of all things—rather amused, still dressed in his riding coat. He bowed.

"Have you been eavesdropping?" Miss Rosamond asked incredulously. "How very ill-bred of you, Theo."

"Spare me your admonishments, Rose; did not you and Robert spend half your childhood spying on me and every body else in this house?" Mr. Hart came forward to take a seat in one of the large arm-chairs. "Miss de Bourgh, how pleasant it is to meet you so unexpectedly again."

He appeared sincere; yet outside of the convivial air of the ballroom, Anne found herself rather inexplicably shy, and could only manage a quiet "Mr. Hart," in greeting.

"Juliet and I met Miss de Bourgh in the park," Miss Rosamond explained. "She was on her way to visit us; was that not very kind of her?" Anne noted with some gratitude that Miss Rosamond neglected the detail of her having been lost and weeping when they came upon her.

"Very kind indeed," Mr. Hart replied.

The party fell silent for some moments. Anne could think of nothing to say, and took another sip of her tea. The Harts seemed quite comfortable, but Anne supposed that being brother and sister, they had no need to fill the silence all the time. At length, however, Mr. Hart spoke again.

"I do hope you enjoyed the rest of the ball, Miss de Bourgh."

"I did indeed."

"We left quite early, as I am sure Rosamond has already mentioned; did we happen to miss the unfolding of any great scandals, or otherwise historic events?"

Anne smiled, feeling her awkwardness dissipate slightly. "I am afraid not, Mr. Hart. Indeed I wish you had, for then I would have more to tell you; but as it was, the rest of the evening was rather dull."

"Dull! Miss de Bourgh, I daresay you are the only young lady in Bath who can attend an assembly at the Dalyrmples' and declare it dull. I am sure every other person there has some great scandal to report, even if it is only an imagined one. Are you sure you did not see any body fall violently in or out of love—were there no wedding-rings pitched at unworthy spouses?"

"Lord! Theo," Miss Rosamond cried, laughing, "what sorts of assemblies have you been attending?"

"I did hear," Anne ventured, "that a pair of twin sisters, the Miss Stewarts, decided to dress alike; and that another pair of twin sisters, the Miss Dillinghams, thought it quite ridiculous of them."

"That is rather ridiculous," Miss Rosamond said, wrinkling her nose. Mr. Hart laughed.

"My sister is thoroughly prejudiced against twins who dress to match," he told Anne, with the air of one imparting a great secret. "A very strange prejudice to hold, you will agree, Miss de Bourgh, for it is such a rare and relatively inoffensive occurrence; but there it is. She thinks it the most preposterous thing in the world, and has been known to abuse those persons for hours on end."

"Miss de Bourgh," Miss Rosamond exclaimed, "do you not agree that I, as a twin myself, and one who as a child was often forced to coordinate if not match with her twin brother, have every right to be as prejudiced as I wish?"

Anne was forced to concede Miss Rosamond's point; from there, the conversation proceeded quite pleasantly onto other topics. Neither Mr. Hart nor his sister was particularly interested discussing the ball any further, Anne was pleased to find, and they spent a very enjoyable half-hour before Anne realized with a start that Mrs. Jenkinson had been waiting for her far too long already, and might have grown suspicious.

Some concern at this realization must have been apparent to her hosts, for Miss Rosamond asked her rather worriedly if everything was well.

"Oh, yes," Anne said regretfully. "I fear I must leave you, Miss Hart, for my companion is waiting for me, and has been this hour at least." She paused and bit her lip, remembering that she had no idea how to return to the café where Mrs. Jenkinson sat.

"You do not mean to say you walked here alone?" Mr. Hart asked, astonished. "I confess I was surprised not to see your carriage outside, Miss de Bourgh, but I had not thought you came all this way unaccompanied."

Anne blushed. Miss Rosamond, apparently remembering herself the cause of Anne's earlier distress, said gently, "May we escort you to your friend, Miss de Bourgh? I myself have some business in the high street, and I daresay Robert and Juliet would not be adverse to visiting one or two of the shops there."

Gratefully, Anne accepted Miss Rosamond's offer; Mr. Hart declared that he himself would not refuse a walk, and rose as well to accompany them. Mr. Robert and Miss Juliet were summoned, and before long the entire party set out from Hart House.

The walk was not a long one, and Anne found it much more agreeable in the present company. There was at first some coldness in Mr. Robert's manner towards her, but after a moment Miss Rosamond pulled him aside and said something to him in a low voice, and Anne was pleased to note that he was rather more amiable after that. The Harts were more than happy to point out certain sites of note as they passed: a park where they had spent many pleasant hours, a bakery that offered some of the finest tea-cakes in Bath, a few bookshops that Miss Juliet assured Anne were "almost as good as Mostyn's", and so on. Anne was rather embarrassed to discover that Hart House was not at all far from the high street, when one followed the straightforward route with which the Harts were well acquainted. What had taken her nearly twenty minutes when alone, took the entire company less than half of that, and after only a few minutes of pleasant conversation they turned on to the street where Anne had separated from Mrs. Jenkinson.

Anne bid her companions farewell before they reached the café, certain that her nurse would not approve at all of her entering that business with these particular acquaintances in tow. She thanked the young ladies again for their kind assistance in the park, and declared her hope that they might all meet again sometime soon, which was returned very politely before the Harts all made their separate curtsies and bows and, almost as one, turned to take their final leave. Yet Anne, struck by a sudden fear, gripped of Miss Rosamond's arm quite before she knew what she was doing, and pulled her back for a moment.

"Miss Hart," she whispered urgently, "you're certain—quite certain that both of your brothers have forgiven me?"

Miss Rosamond afforded her acquaintance a very sweet smile. "None of us are prone to holding grudges, Miss de Bourgh," she reassured her. "Pray do not be uneasy. I promise, you are as welcome now as ever at Hart House."

With that, she gave a final curtsy, a final smile, and followed her brothers and sister.

* * *

Anne entered the café apprehensively, quite certain that Mrs. Jenkinson would be highly suspicious of her late arrival. Indeed, her worries were not unfounded, for Mrs. Jenkinson rose almost immediately upon seeing her, a look of the strongest relief upon her features.

"Miss de Bourgh," she exclaimed, taking her mistress' hand as if overcome, and letting go of it almost as quickly. "I was most uneasy—are you well? I went to the draper's shop again, and you were not within; the shopkeeper said you had left quite soon after our separation, but did not know which way you had gone. You have not been robbed?" Her eyes flew to Anne's reticule, still intact.

"Robbed?" Anne repeated, incredulous and (though she knew it was wrong of her) rather amused. "I have not been robbed; I did not see any thing worth purchasing in that shop, so I continued to another. I was not aware you required information on all of my movements," she added frostily.

"I am sure I do not, madam, but I was truly quite concerned," Mrs. Jenkinson replied, curtsying, but her eyes narrowed. They continued outside, where Mrs. Jenkinson assisted her into the waiting carriage, and sat in silence for some moments as the coachman urged the horses into action.

"Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson said after a moment, "Did you find nothing worth purchasing in the second shop you went to?"  
"I did not," Anne answered, gazing out the window. She thought she caught a glimpse of the Harts through one of the shop-windows.

"And so you continued to another?"

"I did," was Anne's reply, though she was affording only half her attention to the conversation.

"And found nothing there, either?"

"Mrs. Jenkinson," Anne said sharply, turning to her companion, "may I ask why you insist on all of these questions?"

"I merely find it peculiar, madam," Mrs. Jenkinson said slowly, lowering her eyes, "that you could have spent more than an hour in the shops, and returned with no packages; for I have seen you make several purchases within the first quarter-hour of shopping on other days. Though I am sure you have a perfectly logical explanation, Miss de Bourgh," she finished unctuously.

Anne's heart sank. She had not thought to make any purchases, in order to give her story the appearance of truth, though she supposed now that it would have been the clever thing to do. Truly, Anne thought ruefully, she should make a terrible criminal—she had not at all the type of brain suited to furtive operations. Drawing herself up, she prepared to utilize her most forbidding tone:

"If you must know, Mrs. Jenkinson," she snapped, "nothing at all caught my eye to-day, which is precisely why I spent so long in the shops, for I was unwilling to admit defeat. I am looking for a new tea-service, and had hoped to find one to-day, but was disappointed. Does that satisfy you? And," she went on, giving her companion no time to reply, "I would suggest you consider who I am, and whose daughter I am, before you make any vulgar insinuations; I am hardly the sort of young lady who keeps _trysts_, if that is what you are thinking."

Mrs. Jenkinson, looking cowed, hurried to assure her mistress that that was not at all what she had been thinking, and that her questions had been motivated purely by impertinent curiosity. Anne, satisfied, fell back against the cushions of the carriage-seat, and returned her gaze to the passing city outside the window.

She would have done well to be more cautious, for Mrs. Jenkinson was hardly as convinced or as contrite as she appeared. Yet Anne's mind, unsuited as it was to secrecy, was similarly unsuited to suspicion, and for the moment she sat in relative peace—to be disrupted only on her homecoming, by Lady Catherine, who had been promised that the carriage would be returned by eleven, and would be furious when it was not returned until nearly half-past.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**: Three papers, two exams and one presentation later, the semester is done and I am free! That was literally the worst finals week I've ever had—thank you all so much for your patience, and your incredibly encouraging reviews (so glad you're all enjoying this!). I did have a very merry Christmas with my family, and I hope I'm not the only one. Happy holidays to those who are/were/will be celebrating!

* * *

Thus Anne's time in Bath entered a period of relative ease and satisfaction. Her appointment with Dr. Hart, which occurred two days after her visit with his children, was conducted with none of the awkwardness which she had feared; Dr. Hart was amiable yet professional, making no mention of Anne's visit to his home (if he even knew of it) and inciting Mrs. Jenkinson's indignation only once, when he informed Miss de Bourgh that his family sent their very warmest wishes.

"As though Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park could have any care for the _warm wishes_ of a tradesman's offspring," Mrs. Jenkinson sniffed.

"I am sure Dr. Hart was only being polite," Anne said. "Besides, Mr. Hart's family are really all very amiable, for all their low birth and connexions, and I do wish you wouldn't abuse them so."

Mrs. Jenkinson's eyes narrowed, and Anne bit her tongue. "Although I have only met with Miss Hart and her brothers once or twice, at the Pump-room," she added hurriedly.

This, of course, was not entirely true. Anne had indeed met the Harts only a few times within the confines of the Pump-room; outside of the Pump-room, the number of their meetings was slowly reaching ever higher. Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson had fallen into the regular practice of Mrs. Jenkinson's settling herself in a café or coffee-shop while Anne browsed the shops, and away from her companion's watchful eye, Anne encountered the Hart twins and Miss Juliet twice more in Mostyn's, and even walked a short way with Mr. Hart one afternoon when they met, by chance, in Milsom Street, all within the span of one week.

The geniality of their company had managed, by now, to chase all thoughts of rank and dignity out of Anne's head, and though she and Miss Rosamond had not Christian-named one another, nor declared their undying sisterly devotion, or made any of the other symbols of friendship which Anne had read about but never experienced—though none of these things had occurred, Anne was quite certain that her relationship with Dr. Hart's children had reached a point for which Lady Catherine, were she cognizant of the facts, would surely denounce her. Though she knew it was very wrong, Anne could not help finding a small guilty delight in this realization. She wished she could visit the Harts more frequently, as she was able to visit her more suitable acquaintance; but her mother would certainly not allow it, and Mrs. Jenkinson would certainly tell her. Anne determined to form a plan to remove these obstacles; yet for now, she forced herself to be satisfied with occasional meetings, and the undeniable enjoyment these meetings brought her.

Lady Catherine would indeed have been horrified at the relationship forming between Anne and the Hart family; yet she seemed quite pleased to send Anne out into the city on the arm of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was called upon to visit with increasing frequency. Anne supposed that her cousin's familiarity with a good deal of wealthy, eligible men of excellent family made him quite a valuable attendant for her, in her Ladyship's eyes, and she did not protest. Colonel Fitzwilliam was eternally jovial, a man of fine conversation and cheerful wit; moreover, Anne rather preferred his friends to her mother's. The young ladies and gentlemen of his acquaintance (many of them officers and their wives and sisters) were perhaps not all so high-born as Lady Catherine should have liked; but they were pleasant and kind, and often made an effort to include Anne in their conversations. For the first time in her life, Anne was finding herself less inclined to anxiety when faced with the prospect of meeting someone new, and was even bold enough to greet Miss Finch, Colonel Fitzwilliam's most frequent companion, when she saw her walking alone in Saville Row one morning. The two young ladies enjoyed a pleasant walk together, and Anne felt thoroughly proud of herself.

Lady Catherine had furthermore not forgotten her intentions to usher her daughter into an acquaintance with the fashionable daughters of her own fashionable friends; and so Anne spent several afternoons and evenings sitting in drawing-rooms with young ladies of excellent family and fortune, but possessing generally less honest sympathy than the acquaintances she had been forming on her own.

She was rather distressed to find herself addressed increasingly as "dear Anne" by Miss Hammond, who tended to take Anne's silences and vague nods as an agreement to whatever she had been declaring (Miss Hammond was much like Lady Catherine, in that she was for-ever _declaring_ things, rather than simply _saying_ them). Furthermore, Miss Hargreve had apparently decided that Anne was to be her confidant on all things sartorial—a favorite area of conversation for Miss Hargreve—and Anne began to worry that she possessed a more complete knowledge of Miss Hargreve's wardrobe than her own. The Miss Dillinghams appeared to have adopted Anne as their own special sort of pet, and began commandeering her for walks, each of them taking one of her arms and chattering to her at the same time, so that she never had any idea whom she was meant to be listening to. (Yet they were more agreeable than most of Anne's wealthy acquaintance, and she did not mind their meetings much at all, for there was something cheering about their continual prattle.)

Dr. Hart arrived for his fourth weekly visit on the day that marked Anne's first full month in Bath. He took his usual measurements, examined Anne for any sign of fever or weakness, and asked her his usual questions, to which her answers were far more positive than they had ever been before. "Well, Miss de Bourgh," the physician said finally, sitting back in his chair, "you seem happier than I have yet seen you, and your complexion has gained a good deal of healthy color; I declare you seem to me to be quite well indeed. Have you any specific complaints of which you have not informed me—any strange aches or pains?"

Responding in the negative, Anne cast a glance at her nurse, who had adopted her accustomed cold stare as soon as the doctor had entered. "Mrs. Jenkinson," she said, "be so good as to fetch my cotton shawl from my room. This cashmere is far too warm for the fire."

"Should you prefer me to move the screen closer?" Mrs. Jenkinson inquired.

"I should prefer you to do as I ask, and fetch my cotton shawl," Anne repeated firmly. "The position of the screen will not make a difference."

"I am sure, madam, that you will find—"

"My cotton shawl, please," Anne repeated, summoning every bit of the Lady Catherine in her. Mrs. Jenkinson stared at her for a moment, then curtsied and excused herself. Anne waited until she had heard the lady's footsteps depart along the hallway before turning back to Dr. Hart, who looked amused. Anne could not help noticing how much his smile resembled his son's.

"I assume you have some very private matter to discuss with me, Miss de Bourgh, or you would not have gone to such trouble just then," was the physician's invitation. Anne flushed.

"I merely wanted to ask, Dr. Hart, if—if you pay house-calls to _all _of your patients."

"Not all, Miss de Bourgh; generally only to some of my regular patients, such as yourself, and those with more serious conditions. There are a great deal of patients whom I see only when they visit, and who visit only when they have some specific ailment; indeed, many of my regular patients prefer to visit me rather than vice versa—something to do with obtaining fresh air, I believe." He eyed her curiously. "May I ask the purpose for this question?"

"Do you think," Anne said slowly, "that I might be—that is, that it might be more convenient for us both, if I were to visit you from now on?"

Now Dr. Hart's eyebrows rose, and Anne flushed deeper red. It had been a foolish idea, she realized.

"I can see, Miss de Bourgh, how such an arrangement would certainly be more convenient for _me_," Dr. Hart said finally, "but as to its convenience to yourself, I confess I am quite perplexed. Widcombe is not at all handy to your lodgings here, and surely it would be no small task for you to travel all that way every week just to see me."

Anne opened her mouth, but the physician held up his hand and, almost without realizing she did so, Anne closed her mouth again.

"Unless, of course, _I_ was not truly the reason for your visit," Dr. Hart went on, eyes twinkling. Seized by sudden paranoia, Anne glanced about the room, as though her mother or Mrs. Jenkinson might be concealed beneath the settee. "You must know, Miss de Bourgh, that my daughter Rosamond has spoken of you. She is quite determined to be your friend, and I must warn you that when Rosamond is determined, not even the king himself could stand in her way."

Anne could not help the smile that lit her face at the doctor's words.

"As to my other children, I believe they are quite fond of you themselves, and would not be at all averse to seeing you more often. I believe you may even do them some good, Miss de Bourgh," he added drily, "for you possess the virtues of calm and quiet, in which my children are severely lacking. Therefore, if you should prefer to pay a weekly visit to Hart House—solely for the benefit of your health, you understand—then I suppose it could be far more convenient for every body involved. As I believe my daughter has already informed you, Miss de Bourgh, you are quite welcome with us." He smiled kindly at her.

Anne could not stop smiling. That Dr. Hart should understand so well, she had not expected, and before she knew what she was doing she had seized his hand and was shaking it in a rather foolish gesture.

"Thank you very much, sir," she said quietly.

He waved his hand. "Not at all, Miss de Bourgh; I believe you are in a very difficult position, given your—excuse me—social status, compared to mine and that of my family, and I quite agree that your mother would certainly not condone your calling on my children, or their calling on you, however fond you happened to be of each other. Of course," he added, "this arrangement must be explained to her Ladyship, or my agreement will be meaningless."

Anne had not thought of this, but had been so successful in convincing Lady Catherine of just about everything thus far that she did not foresee a terrible difficulty in convincing her of the merits of a weekly journey. That it would give Anne, and the fine coach bearing the de Bourgh family crescent, an opportunity to be seen—that Anne had learned that most of Dr. Hart's finest clientele refused to be visited at home, and insisted upon appointments in the doctor's private office—that it would prevent Dr. Hart obtaining ideas above his station—that it was not proper to have service-men constantly visiting the house, where they might interact with regular guests—one of these was sure to appeal to her Ladyship, and Anne gave the matter no more thought as Mrs. Jenkinson reappeared, bearing the cotton shawl, and Dr. Hart concluded the appointment.

He was taking his leave when the Lady herself swept into the room, an expression of severe discontent upon her face. "Anne," she barked, "I desire you will—" She caught sight of Dr. Hart, who was pulling on his riding-coat, and treated him to an icy glare. "Sir," she snapped, "my daughter and I have exceedingly important and private affairs to discuss, and I desire you will remove yourself this instant."

Dr. Hart showed no affront at this ill treatment; he bowed once to Lady Catherine and once to Anne, before striding out through the grand doors. Lady Catherine watched him go, before she settled broodingly onto her accustomed armchair.

"All is well, your Ladyship," Anne said meekly; "Dr. Hart was merely here for my weekly appointment—it is Thursday, you know."

"I know what day it is, Anne, and I will not have you speaking to me as though I am an imbecile," her Ladyship retorted. A dark silence fell.

"Is anything wrong, mother?" Anne asked finally.

"A good deal is _wrong_, Anne; do you know what I have just heard?" She did not wait for a response. "Colonel Fitzwilliam has had a letter from his cousin, informing him that he and his _wife_ will be arriving in Bath this Saturday, and taking lodgings here—lodgings! They are to remain for a prolonged amount of time, apparently, enjoying all of the pleasures Bath has to offer. As though they would not do everyone a great favor by staying where they belong! I declare it is an outrage—I am most seriously displeased!"

This news did indeed appear to be causing Lady Catherine the utmost displeasure, but Anne, who did not know any of Colonel Fitzwilliam's other cousins, could not see why her mother should be so distressed by the news that they were to visit the city. "To which cousin are you referring, ma'am?" she asked timidly. Lady Catherine fixed her with a fierce frown.

"To Darcy, Anne—what other cousins of his should we be concerned with? Mr. and _Mrs_. Darcy are shortly arriving in Bath, with Miss Darcy in tow, I understand, as though their coming by themselves were not insult enough!"

Anne froze. The thought of meeting with Mr. Darcy had always given her a slight pang of anxiety, for he was hardly as agreeable as Colonel Fitzwilliam and, quite frankly, his stony countenance had always had the effect of making her feel rather more helpless and incompetent than even she, once the eternal invalid, had any right to feel.

That he would now be coming with his wife complicated matters even further, for it must be no secret to Mrs. Darcy that she had taken Anne's position, and though Anne was rather relieved not to have married Mr. Darcy (for it would have been a miserable marriage—she could see that now, even if her mother could not, for in Bath Anne had at last met gentlemen whose company she actually enjoyed), the embarrassment of being supplanted by such a woman still remained. At any rate, she had not liked Elizabeth Bennet when she had met her, and did not think it likely she would like her now. Colonel Fitzwilliam had spoken quite warmly of the lady on a few occasions, when he and Anne were safe from Lady Catherine's careful ears; and now it occurred to Anne that Mrs. Darcy's reported wit and vivacity might very well have the effect of stealing Colonel Fitzwilliam's attention away from Anne, who possessed neither of those things. Her heart sank, and she suddenly wished very much that such a person as Elizabeth Bennet had never been born.

"—And they expect me to greet them, I imagine! They expect me to give Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire her grand entrance into society, to introduce her to all the noble ladies and gentlemen of my acquaintance, as though she is at all their equal! And poor Georgiana, who I imagine has been utterly ruined by Elizabeth Bennet's influence, I daresay we will find her a very changed creature, Anne. No, I am determined that I shall give the Darcys no notice at all; no invitations, no letters of welcome, no calls; and if you see any of them, Anne, I insist that you cut them that instant, for they well deserve to be slighted in front of every body."

Anne did not think she had the courage to cut anyone, especially the impressive Mr. Darcy; but she was too distracted by her own thoughts to make any argument (which would not have been heard, at any rate) and promised to do so.

Lady Catherine seemed slightly appeased, though the mere thought of the Darcys breathing the same Bath air was enough to incense her further, and she went on repeating her resolve to utterly ignore her nephew's presence in Bath, and the presence of all his family, and to insist to every body that they were no longer acquainted.

Indeed, despite her determination to have nothing to do with them, the Darcys were the only topic that concerned Lady Catherine for the remainder of the afternoon and evening, and indeed, despite Anne's delicate attempt to change the subject, they were the only thing she would condescend to discuss. "What reason have I to speak of _pastry_-_shops_, Anne?" Lady Catherine demanded, when Anne mentioned that Mr. Shapcott had assured her that Molland's, in Milsom Street, was the finest pastry-shop in the city. "The Darcys are arriving here within two days, and we must be prepared to disregard them completely. Have you heard nothing I have been saying?"

Defeated, Anne remained silent under her mother's declarations; she was distressed, but not perhaps so distressed as her Ladyship would have liked her to be. Really, Anne reasoned, the Darcys had done her no great injury and—she would not dare tell her mother—if she was to count among her friends the daughter of a physician, then she could hardly criticize her cousin for choosing to marry the daughter of a country gentleman, however irksome and insolent that lady might be. It was only the probable loss of Colonel Fitzwilliam that worried her, for Anne could not think it likely that he would find her company very interesting at all anymore, with his dear friends so convenient.

Yet her sleep that night was troubled, and she awoke much more ill-disposed towards her cousin's family. For some reason, the image, ridiculous and improbable as it was, of Elizabeth Darcy laughing, talking, and smiling with Theodore Hart, had continuously chased Anne through her dreams.

* * *

She visited the Pump-room on the following afternoon, Mrs. Jenkinson in tow but shortly discarded in favor of the Miss Dillinghams, whom she met in the vestibule, and Miss Finch, who arrived a short while later and hurried over to sit with them. The Pump-room was bustling; Anne was not the sort of young lady who habitually perused the visitor's book, but one of the Miss Dillinghams assured her that it looked as though every body in Bath had been in at least once that day. Anne found herself quite content to sit and watch the promenade, drinking the small cup of water which Mrs. Jenkinson had procured for her and listening to the chatter of her companions. Bath really was much pleasanter, she reflected, when one had connexions there.

"Miss de Bourgh," Miss Finch exclaimed suddenly, "Colonel Fitzwilliam tells me your shared cousin Mr. Darcy is coming to Bath, with his sister and his new bride! You must tell us every thing you can about Mrs. Darcy, for I have heard so many rumors. Every body is talking about her; she is the most fascinating thing to happen here since—since the Dalyrmples' ball!"

"Is she really the daughter of a farmer?" Miss Dillingham demanded. "I heard her father works on the estate of one of Mr. Darcy's friends, and that is how they became acquainted; but I cannot believe it."

"_I_ heard that she has eight sisters," the other Miss Dillingham declared. "Eight sisters, and all of them married! Her mamma must be very pleased indeed."

Anne pursed her lips. Elizabeth Darcy had disturbed her dreams last night, and she was certainly the last person she had any desire to discuss to-day; yet the ladies were all looking at her so expectantly, and Anne was suddenly conscious of being in the position of the informed purveyor of gossip, rather than the ill-informed listener who had no idea what any body else was talking about. It was a position she had never occupied before, and she found herself rather enjoying it.

"Her father is a gentleman," she replied, "and I believe he owns some land, and has several tenants. I am quite sure she has only four sisters, and only two are married, not counting herself."

Her listeners looked quite disappointed with this sensible, pedestrian reply.

"Although," Anne added hurriedly, for now that she had some body's attention she did not want to lose it, "I understand there was some scandal with her youngest sister's marriage.—My neighbor Mr. Collins is Mrs. Darcy's cousin, and his wife is her intimate friend, for they both grew up in the same village in Hertfordshire, and played together as children. The Collinses heard from Mrs. Darcy herself that her youngest sister—I cannot recall the name—ran away from home with a gentleman, intending to go directly to Gretna Green to be married."

The Miss Dillinghams leaned forward eagerly.

"But the _gentleman_ was of course hardly a gentleman at all, and instead they stopped in London, where they lived together for some days before they were discovered by Mrs. Darcy's uncle."

"Lord!" breathed one of the Miss Dillinghams.

"Indeed," Anne said confidently. "Of course they were forced into a marriage, for I understand they had been—" She lowered her voice and leaned closer, suddenly aware that they were in a public space. "I understand that they had been sharing not only a room, but a bed."  
The young ladies gasped and giggled, as well-brought-up young ladies tend to do when provided with a particularly salacious rumor. "And what's more," Anne went on, "I heard there was some suspicion that Mrs. Darcy's sister was—expecting. Before their marriage, I mean."

This, of course, was untrue, for Anne had heard no such thing; yet it provided the perfect ending to the story, for the Miss Dillinghams leaned away again with exclamations of satisfaction.

"What a fine tale!" one of them cried, laughing eagerly. "I suppose then that Mrs. Darcy is quite ambitious—eager to pull her own name out of the mud."

"Indeed, and I am sure we shall find her perfectly vulgar," her sister agreed delightedly. "Poor Mr. Darcy! Such a handsome gentleman; it is a shame he has been fooled by such a creature."

The young ladies were so thrilled with the anticipation of meeting such an amusingly offensive woman that they rose before long and joined the promenade, too excited to sit still any longer. They had not been gone for more than a minute before Miss Finch, who had remained unexpectedly silent throughout the exchange, took the seat closest to Anne.

"I imagine, Miss de Bourgh," she said disapprovingly, "that that is the sort of story which Mrs. Darcy should not have liked told; and I wonder that you could have been so thoughtless as to tell it to the two silliest busybodies in all of Bath."

Anne turned to her in surprise, for Miss Finch was hardly in a position to scold any body else for gossiping; yet she could not help feeling rather guilty all the same. She shook it off; this was not like the insults that had been lodged against the Hart family during the ball. This was merely a harmless bit of gossip, which every body surely knew already, and, if Anne was honest with herself, the thought of Elizabeth Darcy's mortification was significantly less painful to her than the thought of Rosamond Hart's.

"I daresay it will do her no harm," she said airly. "No body listens to any thing the Miss Dillinghams say."

"It was not the Miss Dillinghams who said it," Miss Finch replied. "And even if Mrs. Darcy's reputation is unharmed, you must realize that hearing the story repeated would wound her feelings considerably. She would be very embarrassed."

"I have met Mrs. Darcy, Miss Finch," Anne said, "and I can tell you very well that a bit of embarrassment would do her good, for she is quite proud and very impertinent."

Miss Finch could not contest this point, having never met the lady herself, and only repeated that Anne would do well to be more careful with her knowledge, before moving on to a less contentious topic. The Miss Dillinghams returned, full of new gossip about whom they had seen promenading together and who looked to be quarrelling and who looked to be quizzing, and the sociable peace of the afternoon was somewhat restored. Anne, however, was not so easy; as the four ladies rose again to walk, she was quite certain she heard the name "Darcy" spoken by nearly every passing party.

* * *

That evening was spent at the Godard lodgings, where Miss Godard regaled the small party with several very well-played songs, and Lady Catherine regaled them with a loud monologue on her own superb musical taste, and that of her daughter. Anne, who had never been encouraged to take any real interest in music, was content to offer her own, quieter compliments to Miss Godard for her fine performance, before settling into her accustomed silence. Mr. Godard dared to mention Mr. Darcy's name once, but Lady Catherine proclaimed, "I have no desire to speak of my sister's son.—I take no interest in his doings, nor his whereabouts, and have determined not to see him while he is here in Bath."

Rather than curtailing any interest the Godards might have had in the relationship between the Darcys and the de Bourghs, this assertion instead had the effect of rousing it further, for Mrs. Godard was eternally delighted by family scandals, and collected them the way other ladies collected china plates or flower-vases. Yet Lady Catherine was impressive enough to frighten the Godards into at least temporary silence, while Mrs. Godard privately decided to procure her information from other sources. Surely some body in Bath must know why Lady Catherine was so disgruntled towards her nephew.

The de Bourghs left the Godards quite early, Lady Catherine claiming to have a head-ache, and indeed she retired the minute they arrived home. Anne, however, was not so tired, and sat alone by the fire for an hour, ostensibly engrossed in her needlework. The following day would bring the Darcys, and although her Ladyship had continuously assured Anne that they were to have nothing to do with that family, they already seemed to be everywhere, for every body seemed to want to talk about them—particularly about Mrs. Darcy. Anne wondered if she and her mother had been this interesting before they arrived; she could not imagine it.

She sighed. It was unfair, she thought bitterly, that as soon as she was becoming truly comfortable in Bath, as soon as she was beginning to settle herself among acquaintances and even friends, some body like Elizabeth Darcy must arrive and spoil everything. She could not regret telling the Miss Dillinghams the story of Mrs. Darcy's youngest sister, for she knew that Mrs. Darcy would be wiling every thing away from Anne as soon as she arrived in Bath, just as she had wiled away Mr. Darcy. No body would have any concern or consideration for Anne de Bourgh, with the charming Mrs. Darcy making her appearance in every drawing-room, at every ball, at every dining-table. The Pump-room and Assembly Rooms would be filled with her; Anne would disappear. This, she thought, might have been the most attractive option to the timid invalid Anne of Rosings Park—yet the increasingly self-assured Anne of the Royal Crescent, who had been growing accustomed to having places to go and people to see, could not bear to fade into the background again.

Dr. Hart's easy understanding of her desire to have a more regular acquaintance with his family had been a relief to her, and now, in the face of the approaching Mrs. Darcy, Hart House seemed to take on the significance of a sanctuary. What connexion could exist between a physician's family and the Darcys of Pemberley? Anne supposed she must be prepared to see Elizabeth Darcy every place she went, or at least to hear her spoken of, and she must—she sighed again—be prepared to surrender Colonel Fitzwilliam's agreeable company to the far more engaging Mrs. Darcy. But Hart House and its inhabitants, at least, would surely remain Anne's own territory, no matter what her dreams had suggested.

She set her needlework aside with a violence that startled Mrs. Jenkinson, who had been dozing. "Are you well, Miss de Bourgh?" the nurse asked hurriedly.

"Quite well," Anne said shortly. "Only a little tired. Good-night, Mrs. Jenkinson."

Anne was not tired, and she lay awake for a very long time, before at last falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note**: T-minus 8 days until I am in London for semester abroad! I am very sure that being in Town for the Season (which, in Jane Austen's day, generally got going after Christmas and officially started in May) will be highly inspirational. I also plan to make a trip to Bath and walk in Jane Austen's footsteps a bit. I _really_ want to see the Royal Crescent! Although, as I do not have Anne's comfortable disposable income, I doubt I'll do much _quite_ as much shopping or promenading.

* * *

In fact, the Darcys were in Bath for only four days before they were invited to dine with the de Bourghs at the Royal Crescent.

This occurred primarily because Lady Catherine had noticed a significant lack of distress on the part of Mr. Darcy, when it became clear that his aunt was ignoring his presence in the city. Lady Catherine had expected a stream of notes from her nephew, begging for her forgiveness, and perhaps even a desperate visit from him; though she could not undo his marriage, she was certain she could at least cause him to regret it. When it became apparent that Mr. Darcy's despair was not forthcoming, Lady Catherine chose to revise her strategy.

"For I am gracious enough, Anne," she declared grandly, "to give my particular notice even to those who do not necessarily deserve it; and, of course, there is poor dear Georgiana to think of. I cannot, in good conscience, abandon my own sister's darling child to the power of the odious Bennet family."

Mr. Darcy's cause had also been helped by the fact that Colonel Fitzwilliam had, as Anne had expected, become a sight far less seen around his aunt's lodgings since the arrival of his cousin. Though he had not entirely neglected Lady Catherine and Anne, having dined with them twice, he had politely refused several invitations to the Royal Crescent since the Saturday of Mr. Darcy's arrival—a refusal which Lady Catherine, accustomed to having her own way in every thing, took very ill indeed.

Anne herself had not seen the Darcys once until they came to dine, but she had been correct in supposing that their name would be everywhere once they arrived in Bath. She had languished at Rosings, removed from the world, for most of her life, but it was no secret to her that, prior to his marriage, her cousin had been widely considered one of the most desirable bachelors of his circle—indeed, it was a fact upon which Lady Catherine, certain of her own daughter's becoming this sought-after gentleman's bride, had rested a good deal of self-importance. The fact that Mr. Darcy had not only taken a wife, but had married a woman of which no body knew anything, made this marriage into an ideal target for rumor and fancy. Every body had their own ideas of the mysterious Mrs. Darcy, and though it was a subject which no body dared to discuss before the severe Lady Catherine (who had made her own views very well known), Anne was not so shielded, and was exposed to every body's opinion. Those who had met Mrs. Darcy were most eager to describe her, and those who had not yet met her were most eager to press Miss de Bourgh and Colonel Fitzwilliam (both of them known to be previously acquainted with the lady) for information. Colonel Fitzwilliam, it seemed, did not at all mind the questioning, but Anne could not bring herself to be so gracious, and began repeating that her only conversation with Mrs. Darcy had occurred over a single game of cassino, and that she had scarcely paid her any attention at the time, never imagining that she would become her cousin.

Her listeners were invariably disappointed with this answer, but if Anne had been tempted to repeat the story of the youngest Miss Bennet, there was no longer any need; it seemed every body had heard it by now, and it was inevitably the next item of discussion by those who took an interest in Mrs. Darcy. Anne, knowing full well that she was the reason for the story's spread, continued to resist any feelings of guilt or remorse, for she was sick to death of the Darcys and could not care what any body said about them.

She was not particularly surprised when her mother informed her that the family was to dine with them on Wednesday, for she knew her Ladyship well enough to assume that Mr. Darcy's indifference to his aunt's cold silence would surely serve to spur the lady into action; Lady Catherine de Bourgh was not a woman who took well to being ignored, even if it was she who had been doing the ignoring in the first place. Yet despite her tacit expectation of the event, Anne met the news with a heavy heart, dismayed at the prospect of prolonged exposure to the Darcys' smug connubial happiness. She was rather relieved to hear that Colonel Fitzwilliam was to be joining them as well, though she had not much hope of conversing much with him, given the company that was to be assembled.

It was to be an eventful week, for in addition to the dreaded dinner with the Darcys, the first public fancy-ball of the Season was to take place at the Upper Rooms on Thursday. Lady Catherine and her daughter naturally held a subscription to the Assembly Rooms, yet had not made any appearance there during their stay in Bath. Indeed, Lady Catherine had not expected that she or her daughter should attend any of the public balls, as they were _so_ inclusive; however, as she soon came to understand that several of her eminent friends (and rivals) planned to attend the Assembly Room entertainments quite frequently, she had decided that it was absolutely imperative that she and Anne should attend as well.

Anne had rather been looking forward to the ball, for its being a public event meant that there was certainly more chance of her meeting with those agreeable acquaintances who would likely not be invited to a more exclusive affair. In addition, she was eager to visit the Upper Rooms, which were relatively newly built and, despite their unadorned exterior, said to be quite exquisitely decorated inside. Yet now, with the shadow of the Darcys looming over every thing, Anne found rather less pleasure in the thought of the coming ball, for she knew that her cousin and his family must surely be there.

Anne spent Monday and Tuesday making a supreme effort to distract herself from the week's oncoming social trials: she visited the shops, paged through her novels, and took leisurely walks in the park, either alone or in the company of Mrs. Jenkinson. For the first time since her arrival in Bath, she began to feel the nagging pangs of her old head-aches, and found herself quite without appetite at breakfast on Wednesday morning. Lady Catherine, who (despite her protestations that their stay in Bath was for reasons of Anne's wellbeing) had paid remarkably little attention to her daughter's health since employing Dr. Hart, noticed this last symptom and was quite put out about it.

"I wish you would not brood in that unattractive fashion, Anne," she snapped. "I daresay I am very glad you are to see Dr. Hart again to-morrow, for you have been acting in an appallingly sulky manner all this week; it is most bothersome."

Anne apologized, and ate her breakfast.

The de Bourgh apartments were thoroughly cleaned and polished in preparation for the dinner-party. Lady Catherine ordered that the pianoforte be placed in a seat of prominence in the drawing-room—"For dear Georgiana practices every day, and must surely be eager to perform for me"—and personally inspected the public rooms, the menu, and the servants' attire. It was a consideration which had heretofore only been afforded the most distinguished guests; yet Anne suspected that her mother was, this time, less eager to display her own equality to such women as Lady Dalyrmple and Lady Derring, than to impress upon Elizabeth Darcy her inadequacy for the role of Pemberley's mistress.

As the hour of the Darcys' arrival drew nearer, Lady Catherine withdrew to her own chambers to dress, leaving Anne with orders to make herself look "charming, if possible." In puzzling over these imprecise instructions, Anne selected a gown of white tulle, embroidered with small gold flowers, and accompanied it with a cashmere shawl. Her hair was arranged and curled and pinned into place with the aid of a satin bandeau.

She finished dressing nearly an hour before her mother, which was another hour before the guests were to arrive; and so, unwilling to sit and risk wrinkling her gown, Anne walked the halls of the Royal Crescent, watching the ongoing preparations. Enormous bouquets of flowers had been cut and were being painstakingly arranged in the de Bourghs' most priceless vases; the best crystal glasses and finest dinner service was standing on the table. This evening had clearly taken on the form of a battle in Lady Catherine's estimation, and Anne was not surprised, when her Ladyship at last emerged from her dressing room, to find herself thoroughly criticized for her simple attire.

"Are you to take a walk in the park, Anne?" Lady Catherine demanded. "For that is how you are dressed. I insist you remove that plain bandeau and wear the gold tiara which you received for your sixteenth birthday; and are you to wear _no_ jewelry to-night? You have a great many fine ornaments, and I desire you will go put them on this instant."

Anne returned to her rooms and did as she was bidden, though the gold tiara felt quite heavy on her head, and the jewelry which she donned felt uncomfortably cold against her throat and arms. These were things which she had never worn before, never having had the occasion, and she wondered that they even fit at all.

Lady Catherine herself had dressed, as was her inclination, with more care for expense than for taste. Her gown was of a deep purple satin, embroidered and trimmed with thick gold thread that rather detracted from the color of the fabric itself; her shawl was of highly ornate lace. She wore an immense number of gold bracelets and rings, as well as a necklace of enormous pearls which did not at all suit the style of her gown. Her head-dress was lofty and opulent, and even involved feathers. She looked very wealthy indeed, yet thoroughly ostentatious, and Anne was surprised to find herself almost ashamed to stand beside her as they waited to receive their guests.

Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived first. His face registered no surprise as he greeted his lavishly attired aunt, though Anne thought she caught a flash of something like reproach in his eyes. To Anne herself, he was perfectly amiable; he greeted her with a polite bow and declared his hope that he found her well.

"Anne is perfectly well," Lady Catherine said impatiently; "yet you have quite deserted us, Fitzwilliam; I must say I am not happy. Is the company of Elizabeth Bennet so attractive that you have no consideration for your family anymore?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "I am afraid I must correct you on two counts, dear aunt. Miss Bennet is Miss Bennet no longer, but is Mrs. Darcy now; and, as she has married my cousin, she too must be considered part of my family."

Lady Catherine opened her mouth as though to object; yet Colonel Fitzwilliam continued, smiling, before she could speak. "At any rate, I thought it my duty to welcome my friends to Bath; for, as you must know, Darcy has not visited the city for some years, and neither his wife nor his sister have been here before. I apologize if I seem to have been negligent."

"And how are the ladies finding Bath, sir?" Anne asked quickly, as Lady Catherine sniffed meaningfully. She thought it best to secure her cousin's good opinion now, that he might not altogether abandon her later.

Indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at her approvingly, and replied "I believe they are quite taken with it.—They are both exceedingly fond of the country, and Bath, being a good deal smaller than Town, is therefore far more attractive to them than I think a larger city would be."

"To be sure," Anne said, before Lady Catherine could break in, "I imagine it would be rather difficult to adjust to London, when one is accustomed to a country house. I myself have lived quite exclusively at Rosings Park, and I find Bath to be an agreeable balance."

She had some hope that the conversation might continue in this manner, ruminating on the inoffensive differences between city and country, rather than the inflammatory differences between de Bourghs and Bennets; yet it was not to be, as the Darcys were then announced, and the evening was truly begun.

* * *

Lady Catherine received her guests imperiously, with a highly dignified scowl. Anne met them only with slight nods, unable to muster any thing more significant. She was gratified when it was Miss Georgiana who took the place beside her on the settee, for she would much rather sit in silence with her timid young cousin than with the daunting Mr. Darcy or his provoking wife.

Mr. Darcy's face was stony, his manner quite determined, and he met Lady Catherine's gaze as though in a challenge. Anne felt the familiar self-consciousness take hold of her as her cousin made a stiff bow in her direction, and she thought again how glad she was not to be married to him; what a silent, dispassionate marriage it should have been! Yet Mr. Darcy also looked somehow happier than when she had seen him last, and she could not help noticing the way his eyes softened when he glanced at his wife, and the smile—guarded, yet it _was_ a smile—with which he greeted Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Mrs. Darcy was quite simply dressed, and the contrast between her attire and Lady Catherine's was striking indeed, as Lady Catherine had no doubt intended it to be. Yet Anne was forced to admit that there was something attractive in the lady's manner, in the unadorned grace of her dress, in the openness of her countenance and the brightness of her eyes. She hardly afforded Anne more than a glance, which galled Anne almost as much as the unmistakable amusement in Mrs. Darcy's gaze. Mrs. Darcy was plainly amused by the solemnity which Lady Catherine deemed necessary for the occasion, and was scarcely less amused by her Ladyship herself. A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, though she hid it as well as she could.

Only Georgiana looked as uncomfortable as Anne felt, and Anne could not help a small sharp stab of sympathy for her young cousin.

"Well, Darcy," Lady Catherine began commandingly, "I suppose I am to offer you congratulations on your recent marriage." She did not look at all as though she meant it.

"I thank you, your Ladyship," Darcy said briefly.

The party fell into silence once more.

"Mrs. Darcy," Colonel Fitzwilliam said carefully, "my dear cousin was just asking me how you liked Bath."

"I like it excessively," Mrs. Darcy replied readily, fixing her eyes on Anne. "I find it quite charming. Our lodgings are not far from here, and I have already discovered some very beautiful walks in the neighborhood."

Anne supposed that Colonel Fitzwilliam had meant for her to continue the conversation with Mrs. Darcy, thus breaking the ice between them; yet she could think of nothing to say, other than a faint "How pleasant." Mrs. Darcy's lips twitched again.

"It is a shame you had not the advantage of visiting Bath more often before your marriage, Miss Bennet," Lady Catherine declared, with an air of carelessness. "I have always said that the society of Bath provides a great many advantages to a young lady. I recall that you play a little on the pianoforte—if you had had the benefit of a musical education here in Bath, I daresay your performance would be greatly improved."

"I daresay you are not wrong, your Ladyship," Elizabeth Darcy said, smiling. "Of course, I was never so fond of music as is my sister Mary, and I think being forced into lessons would rather have had the effect of souring my disposition towards the pianoforte, than of sweetening it."

Lady Catherine pursed her lips. "Well, at least dear Georgiana shall have the advantages that you did not, Miss Bennet," she said, smiling at her niece. Georgiana blushed. "I had intended to tell you, Darcy," her Ladyship added, turning to said gentleman, "that I am quite prepared to take Georgiana under my wing while we are here in Bath. You must know that I am well acquainted with all of the most important families in the city, and my connexions shall prove excessively valuable to her. There are several suitable gentleman whom I have—"

"I assure you, Lady Catherine, that we are not considering Georgiana's prospects for marriage at this time," Mr. Darcy interrupted sharply.

"You must not leave these things too long, Darcy," Lady Catherine said coldly, eyes narrowing. "You must not assume that whatever plans you have already made for her will eventually come to fruition. I myself have experienced the disappointment such an approach can bring." Her eyes fell on her daughter for the briefest of moments. Anne felt her face heat with a deep blush, and lowered her eyes to her lap. If Elizabeth Darcy had not triumphed over her before, she certainly had reason to now.

The room was still but for the crackling of the fire, and stayed that way for some minutes. At last, Colonel Fitzwilliam cleared his throat and tried again,

"I understand the Season's first fancy-ball is to be held at the Upper Rooms tomorrow. Are you looking forward to it, cousin Anne?"

Anne lifted her head. "Why, yes, very much," she murmured. The company fell silent again, and Anne met Colonel Fitzwilliam's eyes; he looked rather beseeching, though she may have imagined it, and she cleared her throat. "I have heard that the Upper Rooms are quite beautiful," she offered. Her cousin looked quite relieved.

"Indeed they are," Colonel Fitzwilliam said cheerfully. "They were designed by John Wood the Younger, of course—the same man responsible for this very Royal Crescent. A fine architect; I daresay Bath owes much of its beauty to him."

No body had any thing to add to this remark, and so Colonel Fitzwilliam changed his tactic. "Are you looking forward to the ball, Mrs. Darcy?"

"Oh, very much," Mrs. Darcy assured him, smiling. "I, like Miss de Bourgh, am most impatient to visit the famous Assembly Rooms; and I have always enjoyed public assemblies. I find that they are an excellent place to meet new people, and to observe others."

"Yes, but of course, public assemblies are hardly so enjoyable as private ones," Lady Catherine said dismissively. "Anne and I attended a ball at the Dalyrmples' only a week or two ago; it was such a very pleasurable evening. Every body knew me, naturally, and Anne and I had been invited specially by Lady Dalyrmple, for I am an exceedingly dear friend of hers. Have you attended any private balls here in Bath, Miss Bennet?"

"I have not," Mrs. Darcy admitted, eyes twinkling. "However, Lady Catherine, I daresay I shall have the pleasure of meeting you and Miss de Bourgh at a great many balls this season, for I have heard several of our shared acquaintances here talk of hosting one."

Lady Catherine frowned, most likely at the idea of sharing any acquaintances with Elizabeth Darcy, and made no reply. At length, she decided that they had sat long enough, and declared it time to proceed into the dining room.

Anne found, to her chagrin, that Mrs. Darcy and Georgiana were to be her dinner partners, as her Ladyship commanded the attention of the gentlemen. She could not help recalling her first meeting with Elizabeth Bennet, for they had sat together at dinner then, as well, with Mrs. Collins making up the third of their party. It had been a monotonous meal, silent and uncomfortable. Tonight's dinner did not look much more promising.

They were seated, and the soup was served. Anne ate wordlessly, aware of Mrs. Darcy's eyes on her at times. The lady was clearly alternating between amusement and frustration at Anne's reticence, in a manner that Anne thought quite impudent. Neither was Georgiana forthcoming, though she and Mrs. Darcy occasionally exchanged a sentence or two. Anne was surprised by the kindness with which Mrs. Darcy addressed her sister-in-law, and by Georgiana's obvious trust in and affection for her brother's wife. They did not give quite the impression of familiar sisterly warmth which Anne had witnessed between the Miss Harts; yet they were clearly fond of one another, and Anne found herself unreasonably jealous.

Soup was replaced by the meat course, which Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam carved and served to the ladies. Lady Catherine was holding forth on some thing or other, though only Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared interested. Anne felt Mrs. Darcy's gaze upon her again, and dared to lift her head from her plate and meet her eyes. The lady only smiled—impertinently, Anne thought, and she was suddenly roused to action.

"Mrs. Darcy," she said clearly, setting her fork down beside her plate, "I understand our mutual friends have joyous news; have you heard from Mrs. Collins recently?"

Mrs. Darcy was quite obviously startled by Anne's sudden leap into conversation, and perhaps also by her reference to the Collinses as "friends," and took a moment to respond. "Yes—yes," she replied. "Charlotte wrote to me just before I left Derbyshire. It is a happy event indeed."

Unfortunately, Anne, having started the exchange, could now think of no way to continue it; yet Mrs. Darcy appeared to take pity on her and added, "Charlotte has always been eager to be a mother, and I must confess I think her quite fit for the role. She is sensible and yet compassionate; do you not agree?"

"I do," Anne answered, rather relieved. "I think Mrs. Collins a very—practical sort of woman. She has always been an agreeable neighbor."

"And yet," Mrs. Darcy continued, smiling again, "she possesses that rare ability to see the world as it is, rather than as she thinks it ought to be. I have never known Charlotte to be deluded or deceived, even by herself, which I think is the easiest deception one can make. Nor is she given to self-importance. She understands the true value of things—and of people, I suppose. In that way, she is very different from many of my acquaintances."

Anne, who had not Mrs. Darcy's intimacy with Mrs. Collins, could only nod; yet she had the distinct feeling that the conversation had moved beyond its ostensible boundaries.

"I trust that they will be very happy," she said carefully, and took another bite of mutton.

* * *

The ladies proceeded into the drawing-room after dinner. It was a dull party for some minutes, Lady Catherine being in no hurry to speak and no body else apparently willing to begin a conversation. Only Elizabeth Darcy looked quite composed, and she met Lady Catherine's gaze with the same poise exhibited by her husband.

Yet, to Anne's surprise, it was Georgiana whom Lady Catherine addressed first. "My dear child," she exclaimed, beckoning the girl forward, " do come stand here for a moment, and allow me to look at you."

Georgiana obeyed, and stood patiently while her aunt commented upon her height, her bearing, the color of her hair and the style of her dress. Anne was rather vexed to find that Georgiana had grown a good deal taller than she was, and that her cousin's figure was rather the more womanly, despite the seven or eight years between them. Georgiana's bearing was graceful, her features attractive (and, Anne noted, somewhat reminiscent of her brother), and her appearance overall quite pleasing; she was clearly a girl who possessed a great deal of potential. Lady Catherine's opinions, as she shared them, were remarkably favorable—perhaps in deference to Georgiana's youth, or perhaps because she held Georgiana to be the last true Darcy, who might yet do her family credit.

"You are the picture of your mother," Lady Catherine at last declared. Georgiana blushed and thanked her Ladyship shyly. "I do hope you are going to play for us, Georgiana; you know how I enjoy music, and Colonel Fitzwilliam tells me you are quite a proficient."

"Oh, really," Georgiana replied, looking rather alarmed, "it is a word I myself would hardly use."

"Come, Georgiana," Lady Catherine scoffed. "I insist you play for us; I have looked forward to it with great anticipation. It has been an age since I have heard a truly excellent performance." She looked scornfully at Elizabeth Darcy, as though this was the fault of that lady. Georgiana took the opportunity to return to her seat at Anne's side.

"Lady Catherine," Mrs. Darcy said firmly, "of course Georgiana should not play if she is not comfortable doing so."

"Nonsense, Miss Bennet," Lady Catherine answered sharply. "Why should she be uncomfortable? This is a family party, after all; there are no strangers here."

"Nonetheless, Lady Catherine—" Mrs. Darcy began, but she was interrupted.

"I find it quite peculiar, Miss Bennet, that you are encouraging a shy and diffident demeanor in my niece, when you yourself are hardly in possession of such qualities," Lady Catherine said loudly. "You, a remarkably forward sort of girl, must realize that timidity will never secure Georgiana her proper place in society; if she is to make any connexions, let alone a proper match, she must be lively."

"Yet I am also aware of the undesirable effects which too much liveliness can bring," Mrs. Darcy argued, though her tone remained polite.

"Indeed," Lady Catherine replied smugly, "I am aware of the circumstances of your youngest sister's marriage."

Mrs. Darcy looked momentarily furious, but quickly composed herself, glancing quickly at Georgiana. Inexplicably, Anne felt her cousin stiffen. "I believe that event is irrelevant to our current discussion," Mrs. Darcy said evenly. "To return to the point: I will not disagree, Lady Catherine, that vivacity can be an advantageous quality in any person, lady or gentleman; yet I must disagree with your methods of drawing it out."

"It is fortunate, then, that Georgiana is not your niece," Lady Catherine snapped.

They fell silent. The air in the room was quite thick with tension, and Anne shifted uneasily for some moments. Georgiana remained quite stiff and, Anne noticed, remarkably pale. She was clearly even more uncomfortable than Anne herself, and finally Anne turned to her and said, in what she hoped was a friendly manner,

"I quite envy you, cousin, for Colonel Fitzwilliam speaks very highly of your talent.—I never learned to play, but I should have liked to."

"If your health had permitted you, Anne, you should have been a great expert," Lady Catherine declared.

Anne could not respond with any degree of certainty, and the ladies remained silent until the gentlemen joined them.

The party was scarcely more convivial at that point, particularly as Mrs. Darcy seemed to have lost all her entertainment in the evening's proceedings and had evidently been plunged into very poor spirits by her dispute with Lady Catherine. Mr. Darcy showed obvious concern for his wife and for his sister, who appeared even more ill at ease now than at the start of the evening. Lady Catherine sat in overbearing silence, punishing the entire party with her gaze. Only Colonel Fitzwilliam made any attempt at affability, frequently appealing to Anne for support, though the air of antipathy in the room combined with her own self-consciousness hindered her greatly. The two of them held a very weak discussion of the weather, which ended disastrously; then Colonel Fitzwilliam attempted to re-introduce the subject of the coming ball, which also failed. At last, even he fell silent. No body mentioned cards, or the pianoforte, or any of the other usual entertainments enjoyed at a dinner-party. The guests, as the reader has probably already assumed, took their leave very early, and with a certain degree of terseness.

Left alone, Lady Catherine roused herself enough to decry Mrs. Darcy's insolence, her intrusiveness, and her absurd arrogance—"A country upstart, to be sure," she fumed. "And it is my family that has been cursed with her!" Anne, who had taken up her embroidery for a mere moment before setting it down again without interest, made no reply; she understood perfectly well that her mother had no need of one. Yet even the activity of abusing Elizabeth Darcy was too much for her Ladyship, who retired early. Anne followed soon after.

She was rather troubled by her discussion with Mrs. Darcy at the dinner table, for she could not quite work out the intention of the lady's words; yet she was more troubled by Mrs. Darcy's reaction to Lady Catherine's mention of her youngest sister, and furthermore by Georgiana's clear discomfort at those words. How the youngest Miss Bennet had any thing to do with Georgiana Darcy, Anne did not know; she was quite sure they had never met. Again, Anne was reminded of the fact that she had spread the story, and to-night, the instinctive clench of guilt in her stomach was a good deal more difficult to quash.

It had been a disastrous evening, Anne admitted to herself: lacking in charm, in cordiality, in comfort. No body had wanted to be there, and no body had been happy with the assembled company. She supposed it was better that this event was over, for now she could meet the Darcys without the embarrassment of an awkward first encounter. Yet she could not help longing, in the wake of a prolonged exposure to Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy, for the easy amiability of Theodore and Rosamond Hart, and all their family. Most of all, however, she could not help wishing that the Darcys had quite simply stayed in Derbyshire, where she should never have to see them again.

* * *

**Historical stuff:** John Wood, the Younger and his father John Wood, the Elder (fancy that) worked primarily in Bath throughout the 18th century and are responsible for many of its most famous buildings, including the Royal Crescent and the Assembly Rooms (Younger), Prior Park and the North and South Parades (Elder), and the Circus (started by Elder, finished by Younger). During the Season, the Assembly Rooms had a specific schedule, and fancy-balls were always on Thursdays. The term generally meant that the strict rules on dress put forth by the master of ceremonies were relaxed for that evening and ladies, in particular, were allowed to be perhaps a little more daring, as long as they remained within the bounds of propriety (so nothing _too_ shocking); it was not a fancy-dress/costume ball, though that would be fun.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note**: I apologize for the long wait on this one. I arrived in London a week ago and have been kept exceedingly busy settling in, buying necessities, exploring the city, meeting people and doing study abroad orientation activities. And then classes started this week! I will do my best to keep updating while I'm here, but I don't know if I'll be able to be as frequent as I'd like, given the sheer amount of "stuff" I'm packing into the next six months. Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews!

* * *

Given the unfortunate events of the previous evening, Anne was very glad indeed to pay her visit to Dr. Hart on Thursday. Lady Catherine had been too distracted with the Darcys' coming to make any objections at all to the new arrangements, and Anne was even so fortunate as to discover that Mrs. Jenkinson had a head-ache, and therefore could not meet the appointment. Thus it was only Anne and her maid who traveled to Hart House that afternoon; the maid, a yawning, uncaring sort of girl who took no personal interest in Miss de Bourgh's health, was easily dispatched to the nearest ribbon-shop with a pocketful of coins, courtesy of her mistress.

Dr. Hart made an assessment of his patient and declared her to be in fine health. For the returning head-aches, he prescribed her a simple tonic and recommended she take plenty of walks—"For it is far too easy, Miss de Bourgh, to underestimate the benefits of fresh air and exercise; yet I have seen the simple activity of walking daily in a pleasant park produce wonderful physical and mental results." Anne, who had always been fond of walking, did not disagree with the doctor's diagnosis.

Following her examination, Dr. Hart walked with her to the sitting room. Anne felt an anxious tightening in her chest as they drew closer; perhaps she had over-stepped her bounds in speaking to Dr. Hart; perhaps his children really had no desire to see her any more often than they already did. However, "My dear Rosamond has been very much looking forward to your visit," the physician assured her, as though he sensed her apprehension. "I believe she has been quite determined to be fond of you since your first meeting in the Pump Room; it would not be unlike her."

The room was sunny and bright, quite unlike the dark heavy drawing-rooms at the Royal Crescent. Miss Hart was seated at the pianoforte: not playing, but leaning forward to study the sheet of music on the stand. Her blonde hair was lit by a shaft of sunlight, and her expression of pure focus suited her features exceedingly well. Anne could not help reflecting on how much less odious a beautiful woman could be when she was a friend, rather than a rival.

Miss Hart greeted her friend with the gladness which was typical of her, and spared no effort in ensuring Miss de Bourgh's comfort as she bid her sit and take some tea. Dr. Hart was called away to another appointment, and the two young ladies were left alone.

Anne had hoped to find Hart House a place of refuge from her troublesome cousins, and in this she was not disappointed. Miss Rosamond asked no questions, made no conjectures; indeed, she only once mentioned the Darcy name, and showed little interest when Anne, asked how she had been occupied since their last meeting, chanced to mention that that family had dined at the Royal Crescent the previous evening. It may have been that Anne's clear reluctance to discuss the subject dissuaded whatever curiosity Miss Rosamond might have had, for she said only,

"Indeed? I had heard that Mr. Darcy was your cousin; how very pleasant it must be to have your family staying here in Bath."

Anne, to her embarrassment, shrugged her shoulders in a very ill-bred manner, and Miss Rosamond immediately moved on: "Miss de Bourgh," she exclaimed excitedly, "I do hope you plan to attend the fancy-ball at the Upper Rooms this evening."

Anne replied that she did indeed, with some relief at Miss Rosamond's easy transition. The two young ladies spent several cheerful minutes discussing the upcoming ball. They decided that the crowd should be very large, that the dances should be very merry, and that every body should be dressed very finely indeed. Anne had never particularly enjoyed discussions of balls, either coming or past, yet Miss Rosamond's good humor was infectious, and she found herself speaking with more openness and enthusiasm than she was accustomed to. How pleasant it was, she thought happily, to enjoy an easy and amusing conversation, after the stilted awkardness of the last night's dinner.

At length, Anne realized that she had been sitting with her friend for a full half-hour, and was obliged to take her leave and meet her maid. Miss Rosamond walked with her to the door, extracting promises that she and Miss de Bourgh should surely meet at the ball.

"For I have not forgotten, Miss de Bourgh, how very much I enjoyed meeting you at the Dalyrmples'; I daresay it is one of my fondest memories of that evening," she pronounced cheerfully. Anne, rather overcome at being part of any body's fondest memory of any thing, stammered a farewell and made her curtsies.

She left Hart House in a much improved temper, content to look forward to the coming ball rather than back to the wretched meeting with the Darcys.

* * *

There were, necessarily, preparations to be made for the fancy-ball, and the remainder of Anne's afternoon was much taken up with dressing and undressing, curling hair and applying creams. Though the rules of attire were rather lenient for the evening, Anne could not yet find the courage to dress too boldly, and wore a gown of pale purple silk, which she thought must appease her mother.—Lady Catherine, who had been unpleasantly surprised by her daughter's simple choice of apparel the previous evening, had given specific instructions that Anne should be dressed in such a manner that left no doubt as to her rank and fortune.

Dressed, as usual, at least half an hour before her Ladyship, Anne sat alone in her dressing-chamber, examining her reflection in the looking-glass. She was at first almost pleased with her image; yet she could not help comparing it to that of Elizabeth Darcy, and felt suddenly as though she came up quite short indeed. Her eyes and skin seemed duller, her hair-style plain and unattractive. Was the gown she was wearing truly the most flattering or fashionable? Would not she be immediately outshone by every other woman there? She lacked the wit and conversation of Mr. Darcy's wife; should she not make some attempt, however fruitless, to match the lady's beauty?

These thoughts were so dire, and yet so convincing, that Anne had quite resolved to select another gown, and dress again in an entirely new ensemble, when her maid hurried into the room with the news that Lady Catherine had been waiting these five minutes at least, and was grown very impatient.

The drive to the Assembly-Room was silent. Lady Catherine, who had been in a very ill humor for most of the day, was not at all disposed to conversation; Anne, who was too well acquainted with her mother's temper to make any effort, was obliged to sit silently, idly regarding the passing city. There were a great many carriages on the road, most of them travelling in the same direction, and Anne amused herself by identifying whichever family crests she could, and guessing the inhabitants of the others by the colors of the livery. It seemed as though every family in Bath was on their way to the ball, and Anne felt a familiar nervous fluttering in her chest.

Her apprehension was not relieved by their arrival at the Assembly-Room.—If the roads had been crowded with traffic, then the press of ladies and gentlemen at the building's doors was positively a crush. It was quite clear that the first fancy-ball of the Season was not an event to be missed, for it seemed as though no body had dared to miss it. Anne allowed herself to be handed down from the carriage, drawing her wrap close about her uncertainly.

"What a horrid scene," Lady Catherine declared, stepping distastefully onto the stones of the street. "How disgusting it is, to see so many people in one place. And how vulgar every body looks! I suppose these people consider a fancy-ball an excuse to wear any thing; I am quite ashamed to be seen here."

Yet she took hold of Anne's arm and led her firmly towards the doors of the building.

Alone, Anne might have waited outside for some time before at last seeing an opportunity to make her way in; yet Lady Catherine was not the sort of woman who was easily detained, and pressed resolutely through the crowd, stopping every now and then to give her notice to those she deemed worthy. Her Ladyship jogged a great many shoulders and stepped on, or very near, several hems, but of course she did not wait to apologize or excuse herself. Their tickets were presented and accepted, and thus Anne found herself within the Octagon Room in a matter of minutes, her mother still gripping her arm.

Anne had passed by the Assembly Rooms several times during her stay in Bath, and had always thought the building rather plain, without a great deal of charm or grace in its architecture. Yet she had heard many acquaintances speak of the Upper Rooms' beauty, and was rather pleased to find that they had spoken quite correctly. The Octagon Room, which acted as a passageway between all the other rooms, was large and elegant, trimmed with fine white moldings. Through the doorway, Anne could see the ballroom, where—despite the early hour—there were already several couples dancing beneath the enormous chandeliers. The rooms were hardly as stylishly or expensively furnished as those at the Dalyrmples'; yet the building was pleasant, beautiful, and offered a cool breeze through the open upper windows.

Whilst Anne had been admiring her surroundings, Lady Catherine had espied Mrs. Hammond and her daughter seated in the ballroom; and so Anne found herself propelled through the swelling crowd, towards Miss Louisa, who looked very pretty, and very bored, in a yellow silk gown with a daring neckline.

"Why, dear Anne!" Louisa exclaimed, standing to make her curtsy. "How very delighted I am that you have come; how very desolate I have been without you. There is no body here worth speaking to, and Mamma and I are grown quite sick of each other, are we not, Mamma?"

Mrs. Hammond opened her mouth to reply, but of course Miss Hammond paid her no mind, and continued. "I have seen Lord Adlam, and have resolved to refuse him when he asks me to dance, which of course he will; for you remember how terribly he treated me at the Dalyrmples'. I shall not give him the satisfaction again, and I do hope his heart breaks for it."

At this point, she took hold of Anne's left arm just as Lady Catherine released the right; Anne, who had hoped to sit, instead found herself pulled along as Louisa determined to take a turn about the room. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw Lady Catherine sit in Louisa's place, and gave in to being pulled this way and that for the remainder of the evening.

Anne and Miss Hammond toured the ballroom, where the latter was much taken up with admiring the men's coats and disparaging the ladies' gowns.—Every lady she saw was dressed awfully scandalously, or terribly plainly, for it seemed no body had dressed to meet her own standards. They went through the Octagon Room and peered into the card-room and the vestibule, where Louisa provided a running commentary on every person who was admitted into the ball and declared her great surprise when some were not turned away at the door. "I suppose that is the price one pays when one attends a public assembly, however," she sighed. Anne was beginning to see, quite clearly, why her mother so thoroughly approved of Louisa Hammond.

They spent the first forty-five minutes of the ball in this fashion, somehow acquiring the companionship of several other young ladies as they strolled through the Assembly Rooms. None of these ladies was particularly interested in conversation, but occupied themselves with agreeing with Louisa's every word, and giving her (and, more rarely, each other) compliments on her hair and dress in the mean-time. Anne, who had yet seen no sign of her own acquaintances—nor, thankfully, of the Darcys—resigned herself to a very dull evening indeed.

Yet she was that moment cheered to see Miss Hart and her brothers pass into the vestibule, laughing amongst themselves. Anne, who had not laughed once since arriving at the ball, felt rather jealous of their happiness; they all looked to be in excellent spirits, and were almost immediately greeted by some other ladies and gentlemen, who met them with the familiarity and warmth of old friendship.

Miss Hart had not yet seen Anne, yet Theodore Hart half-turned to speak to his brother, and his eyes met Anne's across the room. He nodded; Anne, quite certain that no body was watching, dared to smile. Mr. Hart's eyes fell onto Miss Hammond and her followers, and he returned Anne's smile with a rather knowing, sympathetic one of his own. Anne blushed, feeling rather pleased at his noticeable good humor.

"My dear Anne," Louisa said suddenly, quite loudly, "do you _know_ that gentleman?"

Anne felt her blush darken, and replied hurriedly, "We have met; he is the eldest son of my regular physician here in Bath, and I have seen him sometimes in town."

"How very insolent of him, to smirk at you in that fashion," Louisa exclaimed indignantly. "Though we must not be surprised, for of course you remember whose family he belongs to."

"Yes," Anne answered, quite confused, "he belongs to the family of my physician; did I not say so?"

"They are a very ill-bred family," Louisa said impatiently. "_That_ gentleman is the brother of _that_ lady"—here she indicated Miss Rosamond—"who made such a vulgar spectacle herself at the Dalyrmples', dancing with Lord Adlam and flirting for all the world. Do you not recall it?"

Anne did recall it, and admitted as much.

"I wonder, then, that you can suffer that gentleman's smiles so tolerantly," Louisa declared.

"I daresay he means no harm," Anne ventured, but Louisa cast her with such a black look that she hurriedly endeavored to change the subject by pointing out the arrival of Lord Adlam himself, and all his sisters. This was a sufficient distraction to Miss Hammond, who, turning half away from his Lordship, immediately arranged her features into an attitude of severe, uncaring happiness, and ordered all of her companions to look as though they were highly diverted by her cleverness and charm. The young ladies all gave obedient silvery laughs, doing their best to look at Lord Adlam without seeming as though they were looking at him. The young lord, to Anne's satisfaction and Louisa's vexation, indeed appeared not to notice the small gaggle of young ladies surreptitiously studying him over their fans, and he and his sisters passed into the ballroom without a glance in their direction. Naturally, Miss Hammond and her companions followed only a moment after.

Anne took this opportunity to separate herself from Louisa and her friends, and sat for a moment near her Ladyship, whose circle had grown. The ballroom had filled considerably whilst she had been walking from room to room, and Anne was now at leisure to find some small pleasure in watching the dance. The dancers were generally skilfull and clearly enjoying themselves; the music was lively, and the entire room shimmered with a warm and colorful light. Cheerful voices rose in a hum above the notes of the song, and every now and then a chorus of laughter would burst forth from one or another of the parties seated near Anne's own. The entire atmosphere of the room was one of obvious delight and energy, and Anne, escaped from the company of Louisa Hammond, her spirit soothed by the general ambiance, and still feeling the agreeable lightness in her chest produced by Mr. Hart's smile, found herself rather enjoying the ball for the first time that evening.

Unfortunately, it seemed to be Anne's lot to take moments of contentment with moments of pain; for at that moment, the Pemberley party came through the wide doorway into the ballroom. Mrs. Darcy, her head held high and her face lit by a smile of pure enjoyment, held her husband's arm with an air of comfortable belonging, and he, his head bent towards hers as he spoke into her ear, looked a good deal more cheerful than Anne had ever seen him. Behind them came Colonel Fitzwilliam, finely turned out in his dress uniform, and on his arm pretty Georgiana, who looked half-afraid and half-eager as she regarded the assembly.

The Darcys did not go unnoticed by Lady Catherine, whose angry rumblings Anne could hear, at least in pieces, even above the music and voices of the ballroom. "Very ill-bred… and what of poor Georgiana? With such an influence…perfectly shameful…most seriously displeased." The ladies sitting with Lady Catherine all seemed to share her mind; yet Anne noticed that several of them aimed rather longing glances in the Darcys' direction, clearly wishing to be meeting the famous Mrs. Darcy themselves.

This arrival similarly did not fail to attract notice from other parties, and several ladies and gentlemen—many of them friends or acquaintances of the de Bourghs—swept forward to greet the newcomers. Anne, watching, could not help the swell of jealousy in her chest as Elizabeth Darcy received greetings and compliments with attractove poise and brightness, her hand never leaving her husband's arm. They made a very fine couple, indeed, Anne realized glumly. She herself could never have made such a fitting Mrs. Darcy.

She sat watching for a moment longer, her good spirits slowly ebbing. The Darcys were too well-suited, too graceful, too attractive, and above all too happy, she thought crossly, though she knew it was absurd. Quite suddenly, the ballroom seemed very full and very warm—uncomfortably so. Mrs. Darcy met every person with the same easy grace, the same kindness; even Mr. Darcy appeared almost affable, and Anne unexpectedly found the entire scene intolerable. She rose from her chair, her legs rather unsteady beneath her and her eyes rather blurred, and hurried out of the ballroom, with no clear direction or purpose in mind.

Hastening into the Octagon Room, her head bowed, she collided quite suddenly with another person, and would have been knocked off her feet if not for the firm hand that caught her about the arm and held her steady. Anne raised her eyes to meet those of Mr. Hart and Miss Adele Cates, the former looking rather more concerned than the latter.

"Good heavens, Miss de Bourgh," Miss Cates drawled, "are you ill?"

"No, no," Anne responded hastily, daring to brush at her eyes. "I apologize; I was thinking of—something else, and was distracted. Excuse me."

"No apology is necessary," Mr. Hart assured her, though he still did not look entirely convinced of her wellbeing.

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, Miss Cates looking very bored and Mr. Hart watching Anne anxiously. Anne, who did not at that moment feel entirely capable of making pleasant conversation, at last curtsied and attempted to move past them; yet Mr. Hart's hand, still absently curled around her arm, tightened. The gentleman appeared to realize this quite when Anne did, and immediately removed his hand, looking rather embarrassed.

"Excuse me," he said. "But I do wish you would not rush off, Miss de Bourgh, for I have it on good authority that Rosamond is looking for you, and she will be quite cross with me if I do not at least attempt to detain you."

"I am sure I will see Miss Hart later," Anne replied, for she could feel her eyes welling up again. Miss Cates took Mr. Hart's arm, her eyes fixed on Anne, and Anne again had the urge to be absolutely any place but here.

"Rose is just in the ballroom," Mr. Hart urged, smiling. "I beg you to join us, Miss de Bourgh, for she will surely be upset when she finds that I have seen you and she has not.'"

"You must excuse me, sir," Anne said firmly, and hurried away again before Mr. Hart could say any thing else.

* * *

She did not go very far—merely to the vestibule, which was quite deserted now, for it seemed as though every body who planned to arrive had already done so. Anne was glad of the relative quiet, broken only by the echoes of voices and music, and leaned against the stone wall, only half-conscious of the fact that she must be crushing her carefully arranged curls.

She was not jealous of Elizabeth Darcy because she wanted Mr. Darcy for herself; as has been mentioned before, Anne had come to see very clearly that she and Mr. Darcy should have made a miserable couple, neither of them being at all suited to the other. She should have been afraid of his stony gaze, and he should have been irritated by her meekness. What a silent, wretched prison would Pemberley have been! Indeed, Anne thought, she was really quite fortunate that Mr. Darcy had married some body else, or she should have spent the rest of her days with even less amusement and affection than had filled her life at Rosings Park.

Yet there was the image of them: a striking couple, plainly devoted to one another, addressing each other with all of the simple warmth and familiarity which love can bring. They had only been married for three months, or so, and yet it was clear to any body who saw them that they were comfortable, accustomed to one another, and very well-matched. Anne had never seen a gentleman look at her in the way Mr. Darcy regarded his wife, nor had she ever met a gentleman who was likely to do so. That degree of intimacy, of mutual admiration and respect, was quite lost to Anne, who knew very well that she was plain, and dull, and unaccomplished, and indeed had nothing to recommend her but her money and her land, which would not be hers until she was an orphan—and until then, she thought bitterly, what husband could be expected to live with such a mother-in-law as Lady Catherine?

Anne wallowed in her loneliness and resentment for several minutes, taking deep breaths of the cool air that drifted in from the outside. At length, however, she heard footsteps approaching her hiding-place, and attempted to school herself into the look of a young lady who was very much enjoying a ball, rather than a young lady who was feeling thoroughly sorry for herself.

She was surprised, upon turning back towards the Octagon Room, to find that the footsteps were those of Robert Hart, who was moving towards her purposefully. He stopped when he saw her emerge from the vestibule, inclining his head politely, and to Anne's surprise, did not continue walking as she passed him, but instead turned back and fell into step beside her.

"I am on a mission of mercy, Miss de Bourgh," he confided, smiling at her. "My brother is convinced that you are ill, and has sent me to see whether you require any assistance. He would have come himself, but he has been pressed into service."

At Anne's questioning look, the young man elaborated: "Dancing, I mean. With Miss Cates, who was most insistent. But Miss de Bourgh," he continued, "_are_ you ill? Forgive me, but you look rather pale."

Anne thought wryly that it appeared to be her fate to forever receive sympathy and concern from the Hart family, but was quick to reassure him. "I am very well, Mr. Hart, only I was a little overcome by the heat of the ballroom, and needed some fresh air. I feel much better now."

"I am glad of it," Mr. Robert said kindly. Anne looked up at him gratefully. He truly did look a great deal like his twin, she reflected. They shared the same large eyes and fair hair, and their smiles were exceedingly similar. She had no doubt that the younger Mr. Hart, once he had come of age, would be very handsome indeed.

Upon re-entering the ballroom, Anne found herself rather disinclined to return to her Ladyship and her friends, and instead opted to follow Mr. Robert. The young gentleman did not seem at all surprised when she remained by his side, and led her to a large circle of chairs occupied by several ladies and gentleman whom Anne had not met before, though she recognized some of them. Her companion introduced her, but the noise of the ballroom was such that Anne could not be entirely certain of their names; nonetheless, they welcomed her merrily, and one of the gentleman immediately stood to assist her with her chair.

The party was in excellent spirits, every body chattering to one another, laughing and occasionally clapping their hands to the dance. Mr. Robert informed Anne that his brother and sister were both dancing, and indeed Anne could see them: Miss Rosamond with a young Army captain, Mr. Hart with Miss Cates. The dance was an animated one, and the spin of skirts and coat-tails was mesmerizing. Anne felt some of her earlier happiness slowly returning to her, though she suffered a sharp stap of melancholy when she caught sight of Mr. Darcy and his wife dancing deftly, laughing together at some private joke (or rather, she laughed, and he smiled).

Perhaps Mr. Robert noticed her sudden distress, or perhaps he was merely in a gregarious frame of mind; at any rate, he managed to distract Anne from her envy by asking her if she and her mother possessed subscriptions to the Assembly-Rooms, and whether Miss de Bourgh thought they would be attending often. Anne was quite ready to turn away from the dance, and responded readily. Their conversation lasted until the dance had ended, and the two couples from their own party returned, breathing hard but vibrant with energy.

Miss Rosamond was overjoyed to see her friend, and greeted her affectionately; Mr. Hart was similarly glad to find Anne well. The two of them, and their partners, took the only free chairs in the grouping, which happened to be those nearest Anne. She was rather pleased, in spite of herself, to be thus the center of attention.

"Miss de Bourgh, I was very uneasy when you left us in the Octagon-Room," Mr. Hart declared. "More for my own sake, I must confess, than for yours; for I was greatly afraid of how Rose would abuse me when she heard that I had met you. She had already instructed me to claim you if I saw you, and threatened me with violence if I did not."

"Nonsense," Miss Rosamond laughed. "You must ignore my brother, Miss de Bourgh, for he is full of these odd notions; I very much hoped to see you, of course, but mine was not a _violent_ request!"

"_That_ is nonsense," Mr. Hart exclaimed. "I am sure Robert will support me, Miss de Bourgh, if I profess to you now that our Rosamond, despite all outward appearance, has quite a terrible temper. She rules our household with an iron fist. We live in terror."

"Indeed," Mr. Robert avowed, looking very grave. "I very much fear my sister's wrath. 'Though she be but little, she is fierce.'"

"Is that not the most ridiculous thing you have ever heard?" Miss Rosamond demanded, turning to Anne with bright eyes.

"I can scarcely credit such an account," Anne admitted, smiling.

"Then you are taken in, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart declared solemnly, "and my brother and I can have no hope of rescue from you. Perhaps our next listener will be more sympathetic to our cause."

"It is highly doubtful, for you are both fools," Miss Rosamond replied lightly. "And don't you dare call me 'little' ever again, Robert. I know it is Shakespeare, but it is unkind!"

Her brothers thought this highly amusing, and laughed freely at their sister's expense. If they had been another family, Anne should have wondered at Miss Rosamond's tolerating their teasing so patiently; yet the fondness between brothers and sister was plain to see, even as they ridiculed one another—perhaps especially then—and she instead felt something of the now-familiar ache of jealousy, for she had never had a brother, or sister, or any body laugh at her, certainly not with such affection.

Yet the jovial company of the Harts and their friends was not conducive to such gloomy reflections, and Anne swiftly found herself cheered by the company's general vivacity.

She was even more cheered when the first cotillion was announced, the end of which would signal tea-time. Mr. Hart, apologizing for his remissiveness in not having done so sooner, promptly asked for Miss de Bourgh's hand in the dance. A rapid scan of the ballroom assured Anne that her Ladyship and her friends were nowhere to be seen—Lady Catherine was likely holding court in one of the other rooms—and that of her family, only Colonel Fitzwilliam and Georgiana were within immediate view of the dance-floor, seated as they were with Miss Finch and a gentleman in uniform, whom Anne presumed was the lady's cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam's friend. Thus, the room seemed quite safe, and Anne, almost free from anxiety, was able to accept Mr. Hart's offer with pleasure. (She could not help noticing Miss Cates pursing her lips slightly as the gentleman led her onto the dance-floor.)

"I have always enjoyed the cotillion," Mr. Hart said grandly as they took their places, "for it is an active dance, yet allows plenty of opportunity for conversation."

"Miss Rosamond tells me you are very fond of conversation," Anne said, feeling rather bold. Mr. Hart laughed as the dance began.

"I am indeed; that is why I shall be a fine lawyer—it is a profession that allows me to speak on some thing or other all the day long."

"You will surely grow very tired," Anne observed.

"But to grow tired doing some thing one loves, I find, is eternally satisfying, and can only ever produce happiness. When we finish this dance, Miss de Bourgh, you will certainly be tired; yet will you not also be happy, because you have been enjoying yourself? I hope you enjoy yourself, at any rate," he added.

"I will be very happy," Anne replied, smiling. "I do like the cotillion. I have not performed it since my cousin and I were dancing together, at the Dalyrmples'." She stopped quite suddenly, recalling the circumstances of that dance—particularly those involving Mr. Hart himself—and blushed very red. Mr. Hart noticed, and smiled.

"Ah, yes; what would no doubt be called the 'fateful night,' if we were to find ourselves the characters of a novel. Do not distress yourself, Miss de Bourgh," he went on, seeing that Anne looked no less discomfited. "I have quite forgiven you for the misunderstanding, and have even devised a way in which you may _completely_ redeem yourself."

"I was not aware I was required to do so," Anne said stiffly, still thoroughly embarrassed. They were separated just then by the steps of the dance, but rejoined within a moment.

"It will be no great difficulty, I hope," Mr. Hart said. "Indeed, it may even prove somewhat enjoyable. I was cheated out of a dance with you, Miss de Bourgh—not by your own devices, of course," he added quickly, as Anne flushed darker. "Fear not, I hold you blameless; but the fact remains that I have now, in the course of our acquaintance, asked you for two dances, and I have only received one. That, I believe, is what any decent man of business would term a 'rotten deal.' I demand reimbursement."

"And how are you to be reimbursed?" Anne asked nervously.

"It is quite simple, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said genially. "If you will promise to dance the second cotillion with me this evening, I will declare us completely even on all accounts."

Anne could not help the smile that crossed her face, and agreed. Mr. Hart returned her smile, and they passed the rest of the dance with lively conversation, which Anne found easier than ever to engage in. When the first cotillion finally ended and tea-time was announced, she was delighted to find herself truly enjoying a ball, the way she imagined most young ladies usually did.

* * *

Anne was of course obliged to sit with her mother at tea; but the certain dullness of this refreshment was, to her surprise, lifted by Colonel Fitzwilliam's sitting down with them, having seen Georgiana safely to the side of her brother. Lady Catherine appeared no less surprised, and, understanding her nephew's allegiances to lie with the Darcys, greeted him with coldness, and suffered him to sit beside Anne, rather than herself.

Yet the Colonel was undeterred, and addressed himself to his cousin with customary affability. Anne, still happily looking forward to her second dance with Mr. Hart and pleased by Colonel Fitzwilliam's unsolicited company, responded readily to his questions, and the two of them enjoyed quite an agreeable conversation over tea and cakes.

"Is Georgiana enjoying the ball?" Anne asked, hoping to keep the subject on relatively neutral ground.

"Very much, I think; she has not yet danced, but she has been greatly enjoying the spectacle. I have introduced her to Miss Finch—you know Miss Finch, cousin Anne" (cousin Anne agreed that she did indeed) "and they have been getting along very well. I thought it should be good for Georgiana to meet some body new, for she is rather timid."

"She is lucky to have a guardian with her interests so much in mind," Anne said, smiling.

"You are very kind, cousin. But where have you been?" he asked, laughing. "I have hardly seen you, except for this last dance.—You are a first-rate dancer, Anne, and looked to be enjoying yourself very much."

Anne widened her eyes warningly, attempting to indicate Lady Catherine. It was a clumsy signal, but Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared to understand, for when her Ladyship snapped "Anne, dancing? I did not see her; I did not see you, Anne. Who on earth did you dance with?" he replied only:

"Miss Anne danced with a friend of mine, Lady Catherine; a gentleman of excellent family and manners."

Under ordinary circumstances, her Ladyship might not have allowed the topic to pass so easily; yet she was much distracted by the clear view her table offered of the Darcys', and only sniffed irritably.

Anne came away from the tea-table having promised a dance to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and felt far more the fashionable young lady than she ever had before. Her happiness was so great that even the company of Louisa Hammond, who attached herself to Anne's arm the moment she returned to the ballroom, was no great trial; for when Louisa asked, quite smugly, "And how many dances have you had, my dearest Anne?", her dearest Anne was able to answer nonchalantly:

"I have had one, and am engaged for two more. Have you declined Lord Adlam's invitation yet, as you intended?"

Miss Hammond's face grew rather red, and she said, irritably, "He has not yet asked me, if you must know; but he will, and I will refuse him soundly."

She seemed rather less interested in Anne's company after this interaction, and excused herself within a moment, to join her mother.

Anne thought it unwise to rejoin her Ladyship, who had scarcely noticed her presence—or lack thereof—in any event; for she did not wish to risk Lady Catherine's interference a second time, when Mr. Hart should come to collect her for the second cotillion. She therefore made her way back towards the Harts' party, where she took a seat between Miss Rosamond and Miss Cates. The former welcomed her warmly.

"Did you enjoy your dance with my brother?" she asked, looking rather amused. "I have told you, have I not, that he talks far too much; I do hope you were not very bored."

"Not at all," Anne assured her. "I must confess," she said, rather quietly, for such a thing seemed perhaps improper to her, "I think him rather amusing."

"Oh, Theodore is a fine conversationalist," Miss Cates broke in quite suddenly. "We have had a great many excellent talks; I always look forward to seeing him. I am fortunate in that we meet quite often," she went on, "for Rosamond and I have been friends for many years, and I spend a great deal of time at Hart House." She gave Miss Rosamond a brilliant smile, which her friend returned after a moment. Anne, rather shocked at the familiar way in which Miss Cates had Christian-named Mr. Hart, could think of no response.

"Adele's family are regular patients of my father," Miss Rosamond explained to Anne.

"You seem to meet a great many people that way," Anne observed. She realized as she said it that it sounded rather impolite; but Miss Rosamond appeared to take no offense, and merely laughed.

"But she does not always form such lasting friendships with those she meets—do you, Rose?" Miss Cates pressed, leaning forward. "I daresay we knew from the moment we met that we would be _particular_ friends; and so we are. And I have been very fortunate that my particular friend has brothers and sisters whom I simply adore, for such is not always the case."

"No, indeed," Miss Rosamond agreed, wrinkling her brow somewhat as though puzzled; but the expression passed within a moment. "And we are very fond of you as well, Adele," she added, regaining her habitual smile.

Anne, who felt as though Miss Cates' words were somehow for her benefit, was rather confused, and sat in silence. She was startled to feel rather hurt when Mr. Hart arrived to collect Miss Cates, the two being engaged for the Scotch reel which would precede the cotillion. Miss Cates, she noticed crossly, took Mr. Hart's proferred arm with distinct alacrity. Miss Rosamond was also engaged for the Scotch reel, and bid Anne farewell as she was led onto the dance-floor by a tall gentleman.

With both her companions gone, Anne had nothing to do but watch the dance; an occupation which formerly would have been quite acceptable to her, but now left her unusually anxious. She could not help noting that Miss Cates, undoubtedly a very pretty girl, looked quite handsome in a gown of dark blue silk, and seemed perfectly comfortable dancing with Mr. Hart. She tossed her head, laughed charmingly, and smiled a good deal more than Anne had ever seen her; the display, Anne thought, was quite insufferable, and a true show of ill taste and poor breeding. Mr. Hart looked to be enjoying the Scotch reel quite as much as he had enjoyed the cotillion—a sight which left a curious sinking sensation in Anne's chest.

The Scotch reel ended, though Anne thought it must go on for-ever, and the dancers returned to their seats, looking thoroughly exhilarated. Mr. Hart gallantly assisted Miss Cates to her chair, then offered his arm to Anne, who took it, though with hardly the pleasure and satisfaction she had expected.

"We are grown near the end of the evening now, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart remarked, as they again took their places to begin the cotillion. "How did you find your first fancy-ball in Bath?"

"Very diverting," Anne replied.

"Were you truly shocked by any of the _ensembles_ you saw? Miss Cates has pointed out to me several ladies whom she claims are appallingly attired, though I confess I have little understanding of ladies' dress, and have seen nothing very appalling."

"Neither have I," Anne answered tersely. "Miss Cates and I must have different opinions on the subject."

"I am glad to hear it! What would the world be, if we all thought alike?"

"It would be very tedious," was Anne's response, and she said nothing more. They concentrated on the dance for some moments, Anne feeling the same disinclination to friendliness that she had felt at the beginning of their acquaintance, before Mr. Hart spoke again.

"I saw that your cousin Fitzwilliam was sitting with you at tea.—He is a fine gentleman, and an excellent friend. I hope his family are all well?"

"Very well."

"Did not your cousins the Darcys recently arrive here in Bath? I am not acquainted with them myself," he added, at Anne's sharp look, "but I have heard that they are a charming couple, very well-matched. You must be glad to have your family so near."

"My mother and I are not particularly intimate with the Darcys," Anne said curtly. Mr. Hart wisely chose not to pursue the subject.

"Miss de Bourgh," he began, after another few minutes of silence, "I see we are faced with a conundrum, which must be resolved before the dance is over, or we shall certainly suffer."

"I do not follow you."

"Something has occurred, between the first cotillion and the second, which has caused you some great distress. My evidence is this: before tea-time, you were in excellent spirits, and a thoroughly captivating dance-partner. Since tea-time, you have become no less adept at the steps of the dance, but are no longer so delightfully sociable as you were before. What has upset you?"

"Are you always this frank, sir?" Anne demanded, bristling. She had realized, of course, that her feelings at the moment must be obvious; yet she had hardly expected Mr. Hart to comment upon them. To her further astonishment, her partner merely laughed.

"I am afraid so, Miss de Bourgh. It is a family characteristic, as you may realize; as children, my brother and sisters and I were always taught to speak with forthrightness. I am sorry if I have offended you."

"I am not offended," Anne replied, her annoyance ebbing.

"Nonetheless," Mr. Hart maintained, "you are not happy, and I would make you so, if it is within my power."

These words had the effect of removing Anne's remaining indignation, and her displeasure suddenly seemed to her quite petulant and ridiculous. Of course Mr. Hart had done her no wrong; he was perfectly within his rights to dance with whomever he pleased, and at any rate, Anne herself had no claim on him—nor, she thought resolutely, had she any wish to. It was merely the experience of having gained a gentleman's notice, only to see it then bestowed with equal agreeableness on another woman, which had upset her; for Anne was unused to having any body's attention at all, and was loath to give it up once she had it.

"I am happy," she assured Mr. Hart, smiling sheepishly up at him. "I suppose I am merely tired; I am not yet accustomed to these long evenings."

"Should you prefer to sit?" he asked her, gazing at her with honest concern.

"I am quite able to dance," Anne insisted. "After all, I must fulfill my promise."

"Not at the risk of your well-being, I assure you. Although," he added pensively, "I suppose it might be for the good of my family, if you were to fall ill; for my father is your physician, and your poor health would ensure a brisk trade for him."

"Mr. Hart!" Anne exclaimed, rather scandalized. The gentleman laughed.

"Fear not, Miss de Bourgh, for despite my unruly tongue, I could never wish you any harm. You are quite safe in my company."

"I am glad to hear it," Anne said, rather shyly, "for I do not believe I could wish you any harm, either."

Mr. Hart thanked her solemnly, but with a teasing twinkle in his eye, and they ended the dance in far happier accord than they had begun.

* * *

The ball similarly ended much more auspiciously than its beginnings had suggested possible. Anne passed much of the evening sitting with the Harts and their friends, though she did at times hasten back to her Ladyship, in order to avert suspicion as to her whereabouts. Thankfully, Lady Catherine was occupied with her friends, and was largely unconcerned with Anne's comings and goings; she was satisfied to learn of her daughter's dancing with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and of her having walked a little with Louisa Hammond, in whom she still hoped Anne might find a useful particular friend. Beyond these requirements, Lady Catherine deemed herself quite fortunate that Anne managed to keep herself occupied, this time, with her own connexions, which she considered a sign of Anne's social success. There was nothing less attractive, she maintained, than a young lady who had no body to speak to at a ball; and that Anne could no longer be counted among this sad number, she thought very promising indeed. She never chanced to inquire as to the names of Anne's new friends, for she had introduced her daughter to so many ladies and gentlemen of excellent family and fortune, that she thought it only natural that Anne had earned herself a place among them. Having essentially put out of her mind the distressing incident of the undesirable gentleman's asking Anne to dance at the Dalyrmples', she was quite confident that Miss de Bourgh, with her instruction, had learned to avoid such persons, and was settled firmly among her equals.

Anne's dance with Colonel Fitzwilliam was as pleasing as she had expected. Her cousin, as usual, spoke freely and cheerfully, and Anne found herself rather sorry when the dance ended. Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, seemed almost regretful as he returned her to her chair, and even went so far as to remark,

"What prodigious fine spirits you are in this evening, cousin. Forgive my saying so, but you hardly seem the same quiet Anne de Bourgh whom I knew so long at Rosings Park. I take it your health has improved?"

"Very much," Anne replied confidently, quite thrilled at her cousin's compliment—for she did choose to consider it a compliment. "And there is much more to _do_ in Bath, than at Rosings; I declare I am most charmed by the city. I imagine I shall never wish to leave."

Colonel Fitzwilliam was quite amused by his cousin's uncharacteristic enthusiasm, and bid Anne a very fond farewell as he returned to Georgiana, though he promised to visit later in the week.

The de Bourghs left the ball shortly after midnight, as Lady Catherine insisted she could not stand very late nights. Anne was sorry to go, yet utterly exhilarated. She felt, sitting in the carriage, as though she could not bear to sit still; so much had happened, so many things had been said, that she was able to reflect on the finest moments of the ball with something approaching bliss, lending an air of enchantment to her journey home and to her night-time toilette. Rosamond Hart had been so kind; her brothers, so amiable; Colonel Fitzwilliam, so good-humored; she had danced _three_ dances, and with separate gentlemen; she had met new acquaintances, had eaten some excellent cake, had averted any potential social or familial disasters, and, in contrast to her earlier thoughts, was now quite confident that her gown and her hair-style were most becoming, and that she had looked rather pretty all the evening. The less favorable moments of the ball were, for the time being, discarded, and Anne—despite the shadows of Miss Hammond, Miss Cates, and the bothersome Darcys, looming over every thing—was at last finally, truly, thoroughly happy.


	10. Chapter 10

Anne's good spirits prevailed, happily, for the better part of a fortnight. Colonel Fitzwilliam had observed that she seemed quite a different creature from the quiet Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park, and indeed Anne felt that nothing could be so far away from her now as her life in Kent. What had she done there?—sat in the same dark parlor, read the same dusty books over and again, dined with the same families and, when her Ladyship had a mind to, played the same idle card-games. How dull it all seemed!

Bath, as she had avowed to her cousin, offered such many and varied entertainments. She walked in the parks; she visited the shops and tea-rooms; she met friends and acquaintances in all parts of the city, and found herself growing ever more capable of light, simple conversation, a nicety which had formerly eluded her. The weather continued very fine, with the exception of a few rainy days, which Anne spent with her novels; and with the Assembly Rooms now open for the Season, there were balls, concerts, and card-parties to attend nearly every night of the week. The retiring little Anne of Rosings Park would surely have balked at so much activity, but the Anne of the Royal Crescent was at last enjoying herself. Even her head-aches had diminished somewhat.

During this time, she was fortunate enough to see very little of the Darcys. Colonel Fitzwilliam had made no further attempts to reconcile the warring factions of his family, and had dined alone with the de Bourghs several times since the first fancy-ball. This was apparently enough to re-secure his place in Lady Catherine's good graces, a feat perhaps also due to the fact that he, as Anne's cousin, was one of the few gentlemen who could decently escort Miss de Bourgh in public; he also cut an excellent figure in his coat, and the sight of Anne on his arm seemed to please Lady Catherine very much indeed. Colonel Fitzwilliam attended Miss de Bourgh—in company, of course—to the Pump-room, to the theatre, and to concerts; Anne, who greatly enjoyed her cousin's society, did not object. She was also, as has been indicated in this text, increasingly appreciative of Colonel Fitzwilliam's circle of friends, among whom she had found several amiable and amusing new acquaintances, many of them soldiers or relations of soldiers. (Anne was slowly, but surely, developing a capacity for amusement—something which she had never enjoyed much of at Rosings Park.)

It was only inevitable, however, that as Anne should be making friends, so too should Mrs. Darcy; and Bath being not very large, and the de Bourghs and the Darcys already having some acquaintances in common, it was not unexpected that Anne must sooner or later be thrown together with that lady, and obliged to endure her company with good grace, however uncomfortable the thought might make her.

Such an event occurred some two-and-a-half weeks after the first fancy-ball. The afternoon found Anne walking in the park with Miss Finch, whose company she found ever more agreeable; the two young ladies were talking cheerfully of nothing in particular, when suddenly Miss Finch raised her head with an exclamation of supreme delight, and gestured eagerly at some person walking towards them on the path. Anne turned her head, and discovered that Miss Finch was signaling Colonel Fitzwilliam; yet she then noted, with a sinking heart, that he was accompanied by Elizabeth Darcy and Georgiana.

"How fortunate, Miss de Bourgh, that we should meet your cousins on this fine day," Miss Finch sighed happily, her eyes bright, as the other party came towards them. "I confess I am grown very fond of Miss Darcy, for I think her the most charming girl in the world; and Mrs. Darcy is so very clever. We shall make such a merry party!"

"Five is an odd number," Anne pointed out. "We shall make an uneven party; some body shall be left out." _And I am sure it will be me_, she thought glumly.

Miss Finch and Colonel Fitzwilliam greeted one another, and each others' respective companions, with great joy and laughing surprise. Mrs. Darcy was similarly cheerful in her greeting to Miss Finch, though Anne thought she detected some coolness in the lady's manner to herself. It was swiftly decided that they should all walk together, for Miss Finch, who (with Anne) had been returning up the path, had no objection to walking down it again in such company; and Anne could think of no excuse to walk away on her own—and, furthermore, was quite certain that Colonel Fitzwilliam would be rather cross with her, if she should make her dislike of Elizabeth Darcy at all apparent. He seemed to consider this a fault of Lady Catherine's, and not of Anne's, and Anne was unwilling to disabuse him of this notion, however mistaken he was.

The five of them turned to walk together, and Anne was quite mortified to find herself situated between Mrs. and Miss Darcy; for Colonel Fitzwilliam had gallantly offered his arm to Miss Finch, and the two of them were walking in the front. Their conversation sounded very merry indeed, as Miss Finch had predicted; but Anne and her companions remained entirely silent for nearly a full minute, as they walked in the sunshine.

At length, Anne was resigned enough to her present company to turn to Georgiana and ask her, as kindly as she knew how, whether she were enjoying Bath.

"I am enjoying it very much," her cousin replied timorously.

"Have you done all of the usual things?" Anne pressed, attempting an encouraging smile. "I suppose you have walked in the Pump-room, and visited the Roman Baths?"

Georgiana answered shyly that she had, and the conversation was ended. Anne could think of no way to further any interaction with her diffident cousin, and was unwilling to engage Mrs. Darcy; and so silence prevailed again. It was quieter now, for Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Finch had walked on ahead some ways, and the noise of their talk and laughter had grown softer with distance.

"Have you had any news from Kent, Miss de Bourgh?" Mrs. Darcy asked after some moments.

"I have not," Anne answered, perhaps a trifle impatiently.

"I had a letter from Charlotte Collins only two days ago; she writes that the flowers are blooming in the parsonage garden. I imagine Rosings Park must look very beautiful.—Indeed," she added, "I know it must, for it was near this time, a year ago, when I visited the Collinses at Hunsford, and had the honor of dining with you there. I remember I very much admired the park and the gardens."

Anne was uncertain of Mrs. Darcy's tactics; perhaps the lady meant to discomfit her with homesickness? "You are very kind," she replied stiffly. "My mother is very proud of the estate's grounds; she takes great pleasure in overseeing the gardens every spring."

"I am sure she does," Mrs. Darcy said, with an odd inscrutable smile. "And I am sure you enjoy walking in them."

"I walk for half an hour every day," Anne answered. "Sometimes more, if the weather is very fine; but I am never allowed to stay out in the sun for long." She bit her lip as she uttered the last part, for it made her sound very infantile and invalid indeed, which was a thought she could not bear; especially as she was herself some two or three years older than Mrs. Darcy.

"I have always enjoyed walking," that lady responded, still smiling. "It used to trouble my mother very much, that I would walk two or three miles on some days, for she was always much concerned for my health, and that of my sisters. But I have always considered the exercise to have done me a great deal of good; there are few things more healthy than fresh air and sunshine."

Anne could think of no response, and said nothing. She could not make out the meaning of Mrs. Darcy's conversation: was she being insulted? Was there some subtle joke being made, which only Mrs. Darcy understood? Yet she could not help feeling as though the mood of the silence had changed; it did not seem quite so deafening as it had before.

Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Finch had stopped walking, and were waiting for them at a bend in the path. The ladies caught up quickly, and the parties were rejoined, Colonel Fitzwilliam looking rather ashamed at having abandoned his relations.

The conversation was livelier now, for every effort was made to include every body; though, by some misfortune, the topic which was settled on was Music, of which Anne had very little knowledge. She was pleased, however, to see Georgiana's eyes light up as Miss Finch described a concert which she had very recently attended.

"Georgiana is very fond of music—are you not, cousin?" Colonel Fitzwilliam asked. Georgiana blushed, but replied with some confidence,

"I confess I enjoy it above any thing else."

"She practices every day," Mrs. Darcy told Miss Finch, with unmistakable pride.

"Indeed! And what do you play, Miss Darcy—the harp, or the pianoforte?"

"The pianoforte, to be sure. I have never learned to play the harp, though I greatly admire those who possess that skill."

"Have you been to Town, to study with the masters?"

"I have not," Georgiana confessed, blushing again. "I have only learned what my governesses have been able to teach me."

"That is no barrier to greatness, of course," Colonel Fitzwilliam added jovially.

"Certainly not," Miss Finch agreed readily. "I know a great many young ladies who have learned only from their governesses, and yet are great proficients. Have you met Miss Rosamond Hart?" (Georgiana admitted she had not.) "She is the daughter of our most eminent physician here; a very amiable young lady, who is also a great lover of music. She had not even a governess to teach her, but learned from her sister, who learned from their mother, and she plays beautifully. Do you not agree, Miss de Bourgh?—Miss de Bourgh is a friend of Miss Hart," she explained to the Darcys, smiling. Anne did agree, though she had only overheard Miss Rosamond practice her playing, and had never heard her perform in earnest.

This line of conversation brought the party into a discussion of the merits of natural talent versus the merits of training, on which several opinions were ventured, though Anne's was not one of them; for she was at this moment rather deep in thought. She was at once pleased and alarmed to hear herself described, by some body besides herself, as a friend of Rosamond Hart; for while she certainly had a high esteem for that young lady, and hoped it was returned, the idea that their friendship was known to every body else was rather distressing to her. Miss Finch, of course, was acquainted with both Miss Rosamond and herself, and had been in company with both of them, so her understanding was no surprise—but Mrs. Darcy was another consideration. Anne thought she had seen the same inscrutable smile appear again on that lady's face, at the mention of Anne's friendship with a physician's daughter; what if she should mention the conversation to some body who should tell Lady Catherine? Anne, who knew her mother very well indeed, knew without doubt that her Ladyship would be outraged at the mere prospect of such an improper connexion, and would not hesitate to banish Dr. Hart and his family from Anne's life for-ever.

"Are you listening, cousin?" Colonel Fitzwilliam demanded, laughing, as he gently jogged Anne's arm. Anne, startled, met his eyes with some embarrassment. "I was appealing for your support, for these ladies have quite confounded me, in the matter of whether novels or poetry are to be preferred."

"Excuse me," Anne replied, blushing to find all the company's eyes upon her. "I was distracted. Are you and I on the side of novels, or poetry?"

"I have chosen the side of poetry—imprudently, it seems. Can you make a defense of it?"

Anne confessed that she could not, preferring novels herself; "But perhaps we may all agree that they are both preferable to books of medicine, or law, which are restricted in their meaning to one or two kinds of people, while literature can be read by many, and has a great many applications."

This was heartily agreed upon by Colonel Fitzwilliam, and then by Miss Finch and Miss Darcy; Mrs. Darcy, laughing, and looking rather surprised, quickly concurred. At this point, it was discovered that the party had walked much farther than they had intended to, and they turned back towards the entrance of the park.

* * *

Her communication with Mrs. Darcy left Anne feeling rather unsettled, as her communications with that lady tended to do; as usual, Anne was not entirely certain what to think. Yet her meetings with Mrs. Darcy were so infrequent, that Anne resolved to let the matter trouble her no further—for what could she care, if Elizabeth Darcy were unreadable and strange? The only possible danger presented at the moment was that of Mrs. Darcy's informing the wrong person that Miss Finch had described Anne as a _friend_ of Rosamond Hart.

Two days passed, however, and Lady Catherine made no mention of Dr. Hart or any of his family; and when Thursday morning arrived, and Anne hesitantly reminded her Ladyship that she was to pay her customary visit to Dr. Hart, she was pleased to find that Lady Catherine made no objection: indeed, quite the opposite.

"I confess I am very well satisfied with Dr. Hart's treatment of your case, Anne," Lady Catherine said genially, for she was anticipating several calls that morning, and was in a fine humor. "I was concerned, at the beginning, that he might not be taking your health entirely seriously; yet every body assured me that he was the best, and I have been pleased to note, of late, that your complexion has greatly improved, and that you have been able to attend dances, and card-parties, and late dinners, without showing the least sign of illness or fatigue, which is always so unattractive.—Bath is filled with handsome young ladies this year, Anne, but I imagine you are not so surpassed by them now, as you might have been before—besides which, you have the advantages of rank and fortune on your side. I have every confidence in your making a suitable match; indeed, I am expecting, almost daily, that the gentleman in question should approach me." At this, she gave Anne such a knowing and superior smile, that Anne (who had been listening with interest and surprise) was cast into confusion, and uncertain how to reply.

She had quite forgotten, for it had been so long ago, the conversation she had had with her mother on the morning of Mr. Darcy's wedding, and the intimation Lady Catherine had made that she had in mind for Anne a certain unnamed gentleman, next to Mr. Darcy in rank and importance. That Lady Catherine had insisted, shortly afterward, upon their removing to Bath, had not seemed suspicious to Anne at the time; but she realized now—what a fool she had been—that _of course_ her Ladyship's design in coming to Bath had not been so Anne could take the cure, as she had professed, but so Anne could meet with this unnamed gentleman, and form an attachment. In all the excitement of her new life, Anne had given no further thought to Lady Catherine's designs for her marriage; thus she was exceedingly surprised to hear that her mother was so certain of its occurring very soon.

The next question, which troubled Anne all the way to Hart House, was the identity of this gentleman of whom Lady Catherine had such hopes. That he was not quite, but almost, Mr. Darcy's equal, her Ladyship had affirmed; but this left a great many gentlemen in question. Mr. Wentworth met this description, as did Mr. Dillingham and several of the officers to which Colonel Fitzwilliam had introduced her; but Lady Catherine could have no cause to be so sanguine when it came to _them_, for while Anne was acquainted with these gentlemen, and thought many of them agreeable enough, she certainly was not in love with any of them, nor were they in love with her (as far as she could tell).

Indeed, Anne could think of no gentleman with whom she spent so much time, or whose presence gave her so much noticeable pleasure, that Lady Catherine should think them on the verge of engagement. At least, she thought, blushing in spite of herself, there was no gentleman with whom Lady Catherine could have _seen_ her with so often, from whose conduct she might make such a deduction, much less one that would satisfy her so thoroughly.

Mrs. Jenkinson was disposed of, as had become habit, to the nearest café, to await her mistress; for Hart House and its inhabitants caused in her nothing so much as vexation, and she had become ever more willing to avoid them when Anne requested her to do so, despite the impropriety of Anne's attending her examinations with only a maid in tow (who, unbeknownst to Mrs. Jenkinson, was also habitually dispatched to a draper's or ribbon-shop). Anne herself was exceedingly pleased, after her examination, to find Miss Rosamond and Mr. Hart both in the sitting-room, though she was rather less pleased to find Miss Cates present as well. She was greeted warmly by brother and sister, and assured by Rosamond that they had all been looking forward, with great impatience, to her joining them.

"Indeed," the young lady declared, "Theo is not even supposed to be here; are you, brother? He is meant to be studying, for he returns to the Inns of Court in a few months' time, as he has just discovered."

"To be tested, for admission to the bar," Mr. Hart explained, at Anne's look of perplexity.

"Theodore must be admitted to the bar, in order to qualify as a barrister," Miss Cates added, looking rather smug at her knowledge.

"Indeed I must, and I received the letter this morning informing me of my examination date; after which, I shall have finished all of my studies. And _you_ believed such a thing could never happen," he added teasingly, turning to his sister.

"It may yet never happen, if you do not study as you ought," she replied with a smile. "'Pride goeth before the fall'; and you certainly have a disproportionate amount of pride."

"Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said in a confidential tone, turning to Anne, "my sister, however she might chastise, was the person careless enough to remind me this morning that to-day is the day on which you customarily come to visit us. After hearing such a happy pronouncement, I could never bring myself to open my books, and risk missing your company."

Anne could not help flushing with pleasure, and thanked Mr. Hart for his kindness.

"I am certain you shall pass your examination at any rate, with flying colors," Miss Cates drawled. "I have great faith in you, Theodore."

"For which I am much obliged to you, I am sure," Mr. Hart said gallantly.

"But come, Rosamond," Miss Cates continued, turning to Miss Rosamond, "you were telling me of a letter you had had from Helena."

"I was; she sounded very happy, as indeed she always does. She describes Paris in such exquisite terms, that I am always consumed by jealousy for at least two days' time," Miss Rosamond declared, laughing. "I do wish she would have the decency to make every thing sound lifeless and dull, as you do, Theo, when you write from London."

"You are very unkind this morning, Rosamond."

"Were you not talking, dear Rose, of an anecdote which Helena had related, about our mutual friends the Taylors?" Miss Cates asked.

"Was I? I am sorry if I was," Rosamond replied with a smile. "It was hardly interesting; only that Helena had met Mr. Taylor in a café there, with his bride, and that she looked quite radiant."

"His bride—that would of course be the former Miss Bridget Strong, would it not?" Miss Cates pressed.

"I believe so, yes," Rosamond answered.

"Did Helena ask Mrs. Taylor about Mrs. Seabrook? I understand they are also acquainted; you know Mrs. Seabrook, of course."

"I do; Helena did not mention her. She writes that the weather in Paris is exceedingly fine, though of course ours in Bath is perfectly lovely as well, and I can have no cause for jealousy there."

"I met Mrs. Seabrook the other day, and she tells me that our dear friend Miss Dalton is engaged to Mr. Burke! An odd couple, you will agree, but I am sure they shall be very happy indeed," Miss Cates declared.

"Let us hope so," Rosamond replied, with good humor yet, Anne thought, a touch of impatience. "Have you read any thing interesting of late, Miss de Bourgh?"

Anne opened her mouth to reply, but was pre-empted by Miss Cates, who seemed determined to continue her dialogue of people whose names Anne had never heard before. "Speaking of Mr. Burke," she said insistently, "his brother has come back from the sea, and is to be here for a fine long while; do you think, Rose, that we shall meet them in company soon?"

"It is difficult to say," Miss Rosamond answered, casting an apologetic glance at Anne.

"I imagine we shall see them before long, and hopefully dear little Catherine as well, for I quite dote on her. How fortunate she is, to have two such loving brothers! I am sure you agree."

"I do indeed, dearest Adele," Miss Rosamond replied, kindly but firmly. "Yet I fear we shall drive poor Miss de Bourgh away entirely, if we continue to discuss people with whom she has no acquaintance. Gossip, you know, is only appealing when one is acquainted with the subjects; otherwise," she added with a laugh, "one might as well be discussing politics."

Two spots of color appeared high on Miss Cates' cheeks, which Anne noted with some satisfaction; yet the lady maintained her composure, and said frostily, "Forgive me; I had quite forgotten that Miss de Bourgh was—" She paused, as though about to say 'present', or something similarly cutting, but instead finished the sentence with "of a different circle than our own."

This pronouncement, though more polite than it might have been, nevertheless had its doubtlessly intended effect of making Anne feel quite isolated from her companions, and not in a superior way. The room fell silent; Anne, raising her eyes, saw Rosamond exchange a glance of—worry? Apprehension?—with her brother. This, more than any thing else, increased her indignation towards Miss Cates, whose rudeness she thought quite unforgivable, and she determined to preserve her own equanimity; to which end, she turned to Miss Rosamond and said, with all the affability she could muster,

"Miss Finch tells me it was your sister who taught you to play the pianoforte, and that she learned from your mother. Have you been playing long?"

"Since I was a child," Miss Rosamond replied, with some apparent gratefulness. "My mother was quite a prodigy; my father has said it was one of the qualities which drew him to her."

"Our father, as you must know, Miss de Bourgh, is unlike some other physicians, in that he has a great belief in the influence of one's surroundings on one's overall health," Mr. Hart said. "He is a true lover of music, and has always considered it an excellent restorative; he used to encourage our mother to play for us when we could not sleep, or when we had the stomach-ache."

"Slow songs, of course," Rosamond added, smiling. "She knew a great many lullabies; and during the day, she would play us reels and dances of all kinds. Our father was always delighted to have the house so full of music."

"It must be a great pleasure to him, that you and your sister have both learned," Anne said carefully, having no wish to dwell upon the sad fact of Mrs. Hart's death. Yet it seemed her meaning was taken anyway.

"I believe it was something of a comfort to him, after our mother's passing, that Helena yet remained to play for us all," Mr. Hart agreed. "And then, after Helena married and removed to the Continent, I believe he was thankful that Rose had learned so well. What we shall do when _you_ marry, and move into your own house," (turning to his sister), "I cannot say, Rosamond; for little Juliet has always been fonder of poetry than of the pianoforte."

"I suppose I will have to visit very often; or Papa will have to attend a great many concerts," Miss Rosamond laughed.

"But perhaps then," Miss Cates suggested, "there might be a musical wife in the question."

"My father's marrying days are far behind him," Mr. Hart assured her, looking rather aghast at the implication. Miss Cates gave a slow laugh.

"I refer not to your father, but to _you_, Theodore; you might marry a young lady of musical talent, who can play as well as any of your sisters. Indeed, I should be surprised if you don't," she went on, "for having grown up in a musical household, you must surely be as ill-suited to silence as your father. I imagine you should be desolate, if you were to marry a wife who did not play. Do you play, Miss de Bourgh?" she asked quite suddenly, turning to Anne with glittering eyes.

"I never learned," Anne admitted.

"What a shame!" Miss Cates exclaimed haughtily. "My sister and I were both taught from a very young age, for as we have no great fortune to rely on as our attractions, our mother insisted on our being exceptionally accomplished."

"You are mistaken, Miss Cates, in supposing that I should be desolate if my wife did not play upon the pianoforte," Mr. Hart said thoughtfully. "Your mistake, I believe, lies in supposing me to be more like my father than I really am; for while I am indeed ill-suited to silence, I have no objection to attending a concert when I wish to hear music. I would much rather marry a lady of good conversation, a reasonable temper, and a peaceful disposition, than one who possessed none of those things, but could play all day long and sing like a canary."

"Do you think it impossible to find a wife with all of these qualities?" Miss Cates demanded, her haughtiness replaced by distinct irritation.

"Certainly not impossible, but perhaps very unlikely," Mr. Hart replied lightly. "At any rate, what is all this talk of my marriage? I have no plans to marry at the moment, and this debate over my imaginary wife alarms me greatly. I henceforth postpone any and all discussion of my marriage, hypothetical or otherwise, until after I have become a qualified barrister, which should hopefully take place in some four months' time. Till then," he said sternly, "I will brook no mention of the topic, for to talk of marriage upon a law student's income is not only imprudent, but embarrassing."

Miss Rosamond found her brother's pronouncement very diverting, and laughed at him for some moments; Anne, relieved that the good humor of the morning had been recovered, was pleased to join her. Yet Miss Cates did not look at all amused, and sat back in her chair, her pretty face crossed in an expression that looked very close to a glower.

After so much talk of music, it was only natural that Mr. Hart should persuade his sister to play a song for their friends. It was the first time Anne had ever seen Miss Rosamond play, aside from the two or three occasions upon which she had entered the sitting-room while Miss Rosamond was practicing, and she was delighted to find that her friend played the pianoforte with all of the talent and passion which she had supposed her to possess.

It was a captivating performance; though Anne's enjoyment of it was somewhat lessened, as Miss Cates declared that she should play as well, and seated herself at the instrument immediately following Miss Rosamond. Her performance was similarly skilled; yet Anne thought it lacked the love of the song, and the clear enjoyment of the task, which Rosamond had exhibited. Anne, who had never taken any distinct interest in music, felt thoroughly her own inadequacy, and wished she had at least taken lessons as a child.

Soon after this short concert, Anne realized with some displeasure that she had again stayed far too long with the Harts, and was late in meeting first her maid, and then Mrs. Jenkinson (she collected them separately, so that Mrs. Jenkinson would never realize that Miss de Bourgh had been left unattended). She was sorry to take her leave, despite the trying presence of Miss Cates; yet she was cheered when Mr. Hart, also rising, declared that he would accompany her into town, where he had an appointment that afternoon.

"Surely you need not leave immediately, Theodore," Miss Cates argued, looking rather put out. "I had thought you said you had no plans until noon."

"But your company is so charming, Adele, that if I spend any more time in it, I may never leave," Mr. Hart replied, donning his coat. "Besides which, it is eleven now, and there were one or two shops I hoped to visit before my appointment." (Anne was rather surprised, and disgruntled, to hear him call Miss Cates by her given name; yet she reassured herself that while he may address Miss Cates as "Adele", he was currently offering his arm to Miss de Bourgh.)

"Perhaps I will walk with you," Miss Cates decided. Yet Miss Rosamond laid a hand on her friend's arm, preventing her rising.

"You must stay and entertain me, dear Adele," she insisted gently. "For with Robert at study and Juliet buried in her books, I declare I will be quite wretched without you."

Miss Cates could make no argument, and so Anne and Mr. Hart departed Hart House alone, Anne far more satisfied at this development than she thought was entirely proper.

They walked in silence for a moment, enjoying the light breeze. Anne could not help comparing this moment to the earlier stages of her acquaintance with Mr. Hart, when such silence had seemed cold and unfriendly; indeed, when the mere act of walking with him had seemed so thoroughly improper to her. How foolish she had been, she thought contemptuously. For to consider an honest, affectionate friendship, with any person of sense and kindness, to be reprehensible, was certainly the act of a fool. She was glad now, for the warmth of Mr. Hart's arm beneath her hand, for his agreeable presence beside her, for the companionable silence which, she thought with an inward laugh, he would surely break before long.

She was not mistaken. "How long has it been, Miss de Bourgh, since first you came to Bath?"

"I suppose it must be nearly two months," Anne said, considering. "Give or take a week or two, perhaps; I cannot be exactly certain."

"And how long do you intend to stay?"

"I cannot say with any degree of assurance," Anne admitted. "My mother makes all of those sorts of decisions; she has her own agenda and her own designs."

"And does not inform you of her plans?" Mr. Hart asked, laughing. "What a very adventurous life you must lead, Miss de Bourgh; you may wake upon any morning to find you are to go some place new."

"It is not so adventurous as that," Anne replied, smiling. "We very rarely go any place new; coming to Bath is the first time I have left Rosings Park since—since I can remember."

"And what was your mother's design in bringing you here, after so long a period of immobility?" Mr. Hart asked cheerfully. "She must have some very important reason, I imagine."

"Why, she wishes for me to marry," Anne answered, before she could think better of it.

She had startled the gentleman, that was certain, for he made no immediate reply; but Anne imagined she felt his arm jerk under her grasp, and his voice, when he did answer, betrayed all of his surprise and, Anne thought, certain disapproval; surely, she had insulted him with the gross impropriety of her response.

"Indeed?" Mr. Hart managed. "And has she any particular gentleman in mind, or is that matter left to your own discretion?"

"I am very sorry," Anne exclaimed, turning to him earnestly. "That was quite indecent of me; forgive me if I have offended you."

"Not at all," Mr. Hart replied after a moment, giving her a faint smile. "Have I not told you before, Miss de Bourgh, that my family is one that believes wholeheartedly in candor? My question was impertinent, and your answer was admirably honest. Besides," he added, his smiling growing rather more convincing, "if we are to talk of marriage, as it seems we are, we can only speak of yours; mine, as you heard me declare earlier, is not available for discussion."

Anne blushed, and returned her gaze to the street ahead. "Well, then," she said slowly, "perhaps you may help me, for I seem to recall that you enjoy conundrums."

"I enjoy resolving them, if that is what you mean."

"It is," Anne affirmed, her heart beating rather faster. "Here is a puzzle for you, Mr. Hart: my mother has mentioned to me that she has a certain gentleman in mind for me, though she has not named him. This morning, she assured me that after having observed me in the company of this gentleman, she feels certain that he shall propose very soon indeed."

Mr. Hart's arm jerked again. "There is no puzzle there," he said with a hint of scorn.

"The puzzle is this," Anne maintained, feeling quite daring. "I have no idea as to the identity of the gentleman to whom she refers. My mother has not yet mentioned his name to me, and I can think of no gentleman of my acquaintance—with whom she has seen me in company," she added hastily, "—whom I prefer over any body else, or who prefers me. What do you make of it?"

"You can think of no person who is passionately in love with you?" Mr. Hart asked, with teasing incredulity. "You have not received any bouquets of red roses, or heard any poems being recited beneath your window late at night?"

"Not once," Anne replied gravely. "And I _have_ been listening; you must not mistake me."

"This is a mystery indeed," Mr. Hart declared. "But there is a simple solution, Miss de Bourgh; it is a matter of sight."

"I do not take your meaning."

"Why, quite frankly, Miss de Bourgh: either your mother sees things that are not there, or you are blind to things which are. Is that any clearer?"

"Clearer," Anne answered, "but it is hardly a solution, for it implies that one of us must be completely mistaken."

"Such is often the case, I find," Mr. Hart said genially. They had reached the draper's shop where Anne was to meet her maid, and she released his arm as they turned to face one another. "Perhaps you would do well to look harder."

"Or perhaps my mother would do well to look less," Anne countered.

"That is also a possibility," the gentleman admitted. He bowed gallantly. "My best wishes for your health and happiness, my dear Miss de Bourgh, and that we may meet again soon.—I hope you are to come visit my sister on Thursday next, as is your custom?"

"I am certain I shall," Anne replied, smiling.

"Well, but let us hope we shall meet some time before, for that is a full week away, and you may have forgotten all about us by then. Good afternoon, Miss de Bourgh," he said, meeting her smile with one of his own. Anne curtsied, and they were parted.

She waited only a moment for her maid to rejoin her, and then they continued on to meet Mrs. Jenkinson at her habitual café. That lady was rather distressed that Miss de Bourgh had arrived so late, and declared that she had quite feared some tragedy; "But I am eternally comforted, madam, to see you safe and sound," she assured her mistress. Anne accepted her nurse's concern with very little attention, for her thoughts were rather taken up with other things at that moment, and she was quite anxious to be in the carriage, and then at home, where she could have the leisure of thinking to her heart's content.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note:** I couldn't keep this one from you; I was impatient to get here myself, hence my forgoing much homework in order to finish it! Thank you all so much for your lovely lovely reviews—it makes me unutterably happy to hear from everybody, and I'm so glad you're all enjoying reading this, as I absolutely love writing it. Let me know what you think? I'm a little nervous… ;)

* * *

The following week revealed nothing more of Lady Catherine's plans for Anne's marriage, and Anne was beginning to despair of ever receiving a further clue. Her Ladyship had not mentioned the subject of Anne's marriage again, and indeed appeared to have forgotten entirely, though Anne knew her mother too well to expect such an easy end to the matter. She herself was quite restless, examining the behavior of every gentleman in her acquaintance in hopes of deciphering her mother's words. Mr. Hart had advised her to look harder; but Anne, no matter how hard she looked, could discover no appearance of preference or tender feelings in any gentleman's manner towards her, and decided that the fault must be on her mother's side entirely.

She did not allow the absence of a suitor to disturb her; indeed, she was rather thankful that she was not forced to listen to some inspid lover reciting odes to her eyes or any thing of the kind. As Anne herself was not in love with any of the gentlemen of her acquaintance, she did not mind overmuch that they were not in love with her, for an imbalance of affection on one side would surely have created an unbearable awkwardness.

And so Anne's life continued as it had before, uninterrupted by Lady Catherine's predicted proposal. She promenaded in the Pump-room with Miss Finch and the Miss Dillinghams; she met the Miss Harts at Mostyn's book-shop; she dined at the Royal Crescent with her mother and Colonel Fitzwilliam, and in company with the Hargreves, Godards, Hammonds and Wentworths. She met the Darcys a few times more, though always in a large assembly, with opportunity for no further interaction than a polite greeting (which suited Anne quite well).

Mr. Hart had expressed a hope that he and Anne should meet again before her usual weekly appointment with his father, but Anne saw only his sisters during the course of the week, and then only rather fleetingly; for Miss Cates was by, and seemed anxious to be rid of Anne's company. Anne was not so hurt by this as she might otherwise have been, for she had privately decided that she quite disliked Miss Adele Cates and could care nothing for that young lady's opinion. She was also gratified to note that Rosamond parted from her with real regret, and extracted a promise from Anne that she should _surely_ visit on Thursday.

And so Thursday brought Anne, as promised, to Hart House, where she was shown into the sitting room after a brief examination by Dr. Hart. Anne had suggested that these examinations were no longer necessary, given the improvement in her health which Bath's healing waters had wrought; yet the physician was unwilling to accept payment for a service which he did not perform, and, given Mrs. Jenkinson's and Lady Catherine's charges that Anne suffered from a chronic illness, was even more unwilling to risk her wellbeing for the sake of convenience.

Yet he had seen nothing amiss, nor had Anne reported any complaints, for indeed she had none; thus, she was shown into the sitting-room with very little ado, where she found Miss Rosamond engrossed in a novel. (She was rather disappointed that Mr. Hart was not present, though the lack of Miss Cates almost made up for his absence.)

"My dear Miss Anne," Miss Rosamond exclaimed, setting her book aside. "How glad I am that you have come, for I have been hoping to share with you my latest literary discovery. Have you read this one? It is called _The Widow's Secret_, and is quite fascinating."

Anne replied that she had not, but studied the book with some interest, for she had found that Rosamond (as far as she was concerned) had excellent taste in reading material. "You have only just begun," Anne observed, "and so we must discuss it again when you have finished, so that I may know your final judgment."

"I am sure we shall have that opportunity," Miss Rosamond declared, smiling. "Have you read any thing of interest lately?"

"I have had very little time for reading," Anne admitted. "I have just begun _The Forbidden Room_, which promises to be very thrilling, but I confess I am not moving through it as quickly as I could hope.—It is only to be expected, I suppose, for I find that life moves much more quickly here in Bath, than it does at Rosings Park; or it seems to, at any rate."

"Life moves quickly," Miss Rosamond repeated, with a curious musing tone. Then, fixing her large eyes on Anne, she asked, "Is that why Theo instructed me to ask you whether you were by now engaged to be married?"

Anne sat stunned for a moment, and quite mortified; she recovered herself as rapidly as she could, though she was unable to escape the deep blush which covered her features, and replied stiffly, "I had not expected Mr. Hart to repeat the particulars of that conversation."

To her relief, Miss Rosamond laughed. "He has not repeated any particulars," she assured her friend; "He has merely given me the instruction, without telling me the why or the wherefore. Pray make yourself easy, Miss Anne, for you have no cause to be embarrassed."

"It was a rather silly discussion we had," Anne confessed; and, to avoid further embarrassment, she provided Miss Rosamond with an hurried outline of the conversation, restricting herself to repeating only the puzzle she had posed to Mr. Hart, and his response to it.

"That explains his impertinence, then," Rosamond decided, amused. "But Miss de Bourgh," and here her voice took on a teasing note, "you have not yet told me, what answer I am to give my brother. Has this unknown gentleman made himself known—has he proposed?"

"I am sorry to disappoint Mr. Hart," Anne replied solemnly, "but no proposal has been made to me, and I have concluded that my mother has been much mistaken."

"I do not think it will be a very great disappointment to him," Rosamond answered, though her gaze was once more upon _The Widow's Secret_, and a moment later she turned the conversation to novels again. Anne could not tell what was meant by her friend's words, nor by the abrupt change of subject, and sat for a moment in some confusion, before she was able to make any intelligent response to her friend's remarks on whether Gothic or Romantic novels were the more satisfying.

They sat together for a very pleasant half-hour, Anne enjoying the increasingly rare experience of having Miss Rosamond all to herself, with no Miss Cates to demand her friend's attention. Yet she was soon obliged to take her leave, for fear of arousing Mrs. Jenkinson's worry or, worse, her suspicion. Miss Rosamond, ever the hostess, walked with Anne to the vestibule, where they stood talking for some minutes more as Anne secured her spencer and bonnet against the spring winds.

It was at this moment that the door of Dr. Hart's study opened, and the doctor himself emerged, escorting the last person whom Anne had expected, or wished, to meet with, within the confines of Hart House. Elizabeth Darcy's eyes were exceedingly bright, her cheeks rather flushed, and she was smiling for all the world; she caught Anne's gaze with some surprise, and the two ladies immediately dropped into their curtsies.

"Mrs. Darcy," Anne murmured, feeling the familiar irritation creep up inside her.

"Miss de Bourgh!" Mrs. Darcy cried, with what Anne thought was truly suspect enthusiasm. "What a very pleasant surprise, to meet you here; I hope you are not ill?"

"I am very well," Anne answered. She was for a moment rather surprised at the question, before she recalled that she was, in fact, in the home of a physician. "Mine was a social visit; I was just taking my leave." Perhaps she should not have mentioned the circumstances of her visit; yet Mrs. Darcy did not seem to have heard, or if she had, the words had had no impact on her.

"What a happy coincidence, for I am leaving as well," Mrs. Darcy exclaimed. She gazed about the vestibule for a moment, as though lost in thought, before her eyes met Anne's again. "Shall we walk together?"

"I—" Anne glanced at Rosamond, who merely smiled. "Certainly," she answered, suppressing a sigh. Mrs. Darcy's uncommonly fine spirits made the idea of her company no less disconcerting; indeed, Anne found Mrs. Darcy more perplexing than ever, at the present moment.

Thus the two ladies took their leave of Dr. Hart and his daughter, and emerged from Hart House together, in a silence that Anne thought quite uncomfortable, but which Mrs. Darcy appeared not to notice. From the Hart's gate, Anne turned her steps towards town, where her maid and Mrs. Jenkinson were waiting; yet Mrs. Darcy quite unexpectedly took her arm and pulled her to a stop.

"Forgive me, Miss de Bourgh," she said, meeting Anne's startled glance. "I find I cannot bear the thought of sitting my carriage, just now; may we walk a little ways together?"

Her eyes and smile were so bright, that Anne, however ill at ease she may have been at the moment, found herself unwilling to argue. "There is a small walking-park, just there," she said, indicating the little park behind Hart House. "Shall we take a turn?"

"That sounds lovely," Mrs. Darcy declared, and so they set off for the walking-park, still in silence.

They had walked together for some minutes before Mrs. Darcy at last turned to Anne. "I am sorry to inconvenience you, Miss de Bourgh; I am sure you wish very much to be at home. Yet I am so happy!"

"I trust you are well, then?" Anne said, for it was all she could think to say.

"I am very well, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Darcy assured her, beaming. "I must—may I tell you? I am very sorry, but I must tell some body. I had suspected for some time, but Dr. Hart has just confirmed—that I am expecting." She bit her lip as she made this pronouncement, and looked, to Anne's alarm, quite uncharacteristically joyful.

In response to her companion's obvious elation, Anne gave Mrs. Darcy a broad smile, and exclaimed her heartfelt congratulations. She was not certain what else was required of her; the situation was wholly unfamiliar, and distant family or no, she could not tell what degree of enthusiasm she was meant to express. Yet Mrs. Darcy seemed quite satisfied with her reaction and, to Anne's relief, made no attempts to embrace her, or to burst into happy tears upon Anne's shoulder, or any other displays of unwarranted endearment, which she had heard young ladies of Mrs. Darcy's condition were disposed to. Instead, they fell into a rather more comfortable silence, and continued walking. Mrs. Darcy appeared to regain much of her customary composure after a few minutes more, though she seemed helpless to stop a smile from spreading across her face, and was able to speak again with rather more equanimity.

"Miss de Bourgh," she began, looking as though she were considering something very deeply, "have you any objection to my speaking freely?"

Anne was at a loss as to what Elizabeth Darcy could wish to speak freely to _her_ about, but assured the lady that she had no objection.

"You are being exceedingly obliging just now," Mrs. Darcy continued, "and it is very much appreciated. Yet I hope you will not take offense if I say that you are perhaps the last person I should have expected to share this news with, particularly as you are the first, besides myself, to know."

"I am not offended," Anne replied mildly.

"I am glad of it. I fear, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Darcy continued, rather slowly, "that I have been rather mistaken, with regard to my past judgment of you; and I am in the habit of correcting my mistakes. I am afraid I have been rather prejudiced, and perhaps unkind."

"I am sorry to hear it; yet, Mrs. Darcy," Anne ventured hesitantly, "you have only ever been polite to me, as I hope I have been to you."

"My thoughts have not always matched my behavior," Mrs. Darcy admitted. "I mean only to say, Miss de Bourgh, that I was prejudiced against you before we ever met, from the account which I had had of you from Mr. Collins, and—I am very ashamed to admit—from the circumstance of your being formerly engaged to Mr. Darcy."

At these words, Anne could not help but flinch slightly, and Mrs. Darcy turned to her. "Excuse me," she said quickly. "I ought not to have mentioned it."

"No, no," Anne insisted. "I hope you do not think me wounded by your reference to my past engagement, if such it can be called, nor jealous that you have married the man my mother chose for me; for I have come to see, Mrs. Darcy, that you are a far more fitting wife to him than I could ever have been."

"There was a time when I did not think so," Mrs. Darcy said softly, with a little smile, as though recalling some thing amusing to her.

"But it is true; do you not see? You love him, and I never could; and what is more, he loves you, as he certainly could never have loved me. You are well-suited to one another, while he and I have nothing in common, and no attachment between us." Anne smiled ruefully. "I confess I envy your having found such a partner; but I do not envy you Mr. Darcy himself."

"I am glad of it," Mrs. Darcy repeated. They turned back along the path, and walked in silence for some moments, before Anne ventured to speak again.

"But may I ask, Mrs. Darcy," Anne said carefully, "why you have revised your opinion of me, and why you are speaking of the matter now?"

Mrs. Darcy was silent for a moment. "I have no very clear reason," she said at last. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, since we have been in Bath, has talked of your amiability and your compassion, and I have a great respect for that gentleman as a judge of character, though of course," she went on, her eyes twinkling, "we do not _always_ agree. Besides which, the kindness you have shown to Georgiana, whenever we have met, does you a great deal of credit. I believe, Miss de Bourgh, that I am simply seeing you through new eyes, now that we are thrown together more often, and under different circumstances."

"Thank you," Anne replied, feeling rather warm in spite of herself. Mrs. Darcy smiled at her.

"I know you have no very great opinion of me," she said, with a little laugh. "And I am sure I have given you provocation for dislike, whether I am aware of it or no. I am sorry if I have ever offended you, or been unkind."

Anne returned her companion's smile, though she did not disagree; for indeed, she could think of no way to verbalize her feelings toward Mrs. Darcy, without sounding unforgivably impolite and, it must be professed, rather unreasonable. Yet Mrs. Darcy's present kindness, the air of openness which currently existed between them, rather lessened her irritation with that lady, and produced in her certain inklings of guilt, where there had been almost none before. Mrs. Darcy, she reflected, had only ever been polite, if sometimes rather impertinent; she had never outwardly treated Anne with spite, or any thing of the kind, however uncharitable her thoughts may have been. Taking a deep breath, Anne strengthened her resolve, and steeled herself for her coming admission, which she was certain she would regret if she left it unsaid.

"I must confess, Mrs. Darcy," Anne began carefully, and quite apprehensively, "that I have not always acted in a fitting manner, where you are concerned.—I am very sorry to say, that I foolishly related a rumor which I had heard, regarding your family; and out of little motive other than malice."

There was silence between them. "You refer, I think, to my youngest sister's elopement," Mrs. Darcy said finally.

"I do."

It was a long moment before Mrs. Darcy replied. "I had found that the story was known here, much to my mortification," she said slowly, "for as you must be aware, it is not a part of my family's history which gives me any pleasure to recall. I had thought, perhaps, that Lady Catherine had circulated the story…I had not considered that you could be the culprit," she mused.

"I am sorry to have done it, for it gave me no pleasure at all," Anne admitted, all in rush, for fear her nerve would fail her. "I was jealous, Mrs. Darcy; I suppose, since we are now speaking freely to one another, that I am obliged to admit to it. Bath, you must understand, is all new to me; _society_ is all new to me. Now is the first time in my life, when I have had friends and acquaintances to meet, and people to visit; and I was dreadfully afraid that your arrival would—would take them all away, somehow. I had heard so much from Colonel Fitzwilliam of your charm, and your agreeableness, that I was afraid of being—outshone. It all sounds excessively stupid now," she added regretfully. "I suppose I am really nothing more than a child. I am sorry for any pain I have caused you."

"I am sorry for it, as well, for it did cause some pain to myself, and to certain others, whose involvement in the fact I am not at liberty to make explicit," Mrs. Darcy replied at last. "I wish you had not mentioned it to any body; but I am thankful for your honesty." They had nearly reached the entrance to the park. "That you have admitted your mistake, and apologized for it, is to your credit, particularly as you are under no obligation to me for any thing. I suppose we have misjudged one another from the start, Miss de Bourgh, and been needlessly unkind because of it. Yet," she added, her smile growing again, "I must confess that I am too happy to-day, for any thing to bother me. What a joy this is!"

Anne's relief surprised her, and she was suddenly, unexpectedly, grateful to Mrs. Darcy, for her forgiveness and understanding. They returned to the street again, and from thence to the town, where Mrs. Darcy met her carriage and Anne met her maid.

"I am very glad that we have discussed matters so sincerely, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Darcy declared, as they parted. "I suppose we are not friends, in spite of this beneficial conversation. But perhaps we may, some day, be able to call one another as such."

"I do not think it impossible," Anne replied, curtsying. "My deepest congratulations, again, Mrs. Darcy, for your happy news, and my best wishes to your family."

Mrs. Darcy gave one last curtsy, and one last beaming smile, and disappeared into her carriage.

* * *

It was true, that Anne and Mrs. Darcy were not friends; Anne could not yet help but resent, however slightly, Mrs. Darcy's charisma, and her unreasonable felicity, and was yet frustrated by the apparent partiality every body had for that lady. She was irritated by Mrs. Darcy's habit of speaking her mind, and making her opinion known, which every body else except Lady Catherine seemed to forgive, and the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy together, while perhaps less abhorrent to her than it had been before, was still not a particularly welcome one. She did not look forward, with any great happiness, to the moments when she must meet Mrs. Darcy in company, and be obliged to make pleasant conversation with her. Yet she was glad, the next time they met, to find herself greeted with more real warmth on Mrs. Darcy's part, than she had sensed previously; and their conversation, though hardly affectionate, was rather less stilted, on both sides.

The morning after her walk with Mrs. Darcy, she awoke early, and found herself quite unable to fall asleep again, though she tossed and turned in the bed for nearly a quarter of an hour. At last, admitting defeat, she rose and dressed quietly, as had become her habit on these early mornings, and slipped out of the house and into springtime.

Mrs. Collins had told Mrs. Darcy that the flowers were blooming at Hunsford, which of course meant they were blooming at Rosings as well, and for a moment Anne felt a tingle of home-sickness, as she stepped onto the cobblestone street rather than the garden paths of her home in Kent. But hurrying across the street brought her to the park, where she found flowers to her heart's content, and birds chirping, and all of the other aspects of Nature, which she found very soothing indeed. She took a turn about one of the shorter paths; then, finding she had no desire to return to the Royal Crescent so soon, started down another path.

The morning was quiet, the park as yet largely empty, aside from one or two nursemaids pushing baby-carriages. Anne breathed deeply, enjoying the feel of the sun warming her face, and the rustle of the leaves in the trees as a gentle breeze shook them lightly. She was, she realized, incurably happy, in the present moment; the day felt full of promise, as such days frequently do (although this was not often the case for Anne, whose life had continued the same for nearly twenty-four years). Closing her eyes for a moment, she opened them again to find a familiar figure walking down the path towards her.

For some reason, which she could not name, she was not at all surprised to see him; it was as though some part of her had been expecting it. Mr. Hart caught sight of her in the same moment, and gave a bow in greeting. Anne, with a curtsy, stopped walking, and stood to wait for him, unable to suppress a smile. They met agreeably, and Mr. Hart offered his arm, which Anne was happy to accept, as they walked together.

"I recall, Mr. Hart," Anne began, "that you once told me it is your habit to walk early, when you are troubled by some difficult matter; I hope that is not the case this morning."

"No, indeed," Mr. Hart replied cheerfully. "I suppose I _ought_ to be troubled, for my exams draw nearer every day, but I confess I have found myself in an hopelessly good humor these past few days, which can have no cause other than the coming springtime."

"I was just admiring the flowers, myself."

"Are they so different, from the ones you have in Kent?"

"Every thing is different here," Anne said lightly. "Indeed, I myself am very different when I am here in Bath. You should not have recognized me, if you had met me some months ago; even my cousin Fitzwilliam assures me that I am quite a different creature now, and he has known me all my life."

"I hope he means it as a compliment."

"I think he does; at least, I took it as such. But," Anne continued, considering, "I suppose I am wrong to say that _every_ thing is different here, for there are some people who have not changed.—I am thinking of my mother, whose disposition is always the same where-ever she goes."

"Her character must be strong indeed, if she can remain utterly unaffected by her surroundings; it is a feature which few of us can boast."

"Her character is very strong," Anne affirmed, smiling.

"Speaking of your mother, and her strong character," Mr. Hart said solemnly, "my sister informs me that you are yet a single woman, with no further evidence as to the identity of your future husband, though a week has passed, in which you have had more than enough time to discover all of the facts. Can this be true?"

"I am ashamed to admit it," Anne laughed. "But my mother has not mentioned the matter again, and I am bound to conclude that she was in error, and has since realized it, hence her silence."

"What a grave disappointment, for I was exceedingly curious. That mystery of yours, if you must know, Miss de Bourgh, was one of the reasons which I rose so early this morning, and have been walking in this park, to ease my mind."

"You are joking," Anne accused. "And I confess I think it rather unkind of you, given the subject."

"I am very sorry to hear it, for you are one of the few people in the world to whom I could never be unkind," Mr. Hart said seriously.

Anne raised her eyes to his, and smiled. "What have I done, to deserve such security?" she demanded, feeling quite audacious.

"Why, quite simply, you have become a friend of my sister," he replied. "I have told you before that Rosamond has a dreadful temper, though you would not believe me; and I must tell you now that she is terribly protective of her friends, and will certainly do me some great injury if you should give her any unfavorable report of my behavior."

"Well, then," Anne exclaimed, "you must certainly be excessively amiable to me, or I shall abuse my position directly."

Mr. Hart laughed at this, and they fell pleasantly quiet as they walked. Anne thought idly that there could be nothing more peaceful, though of course she did not mind when her companion spoke again:

"I am very glad to have met you this morning, Miss de Bourgh, for I was sorry that I could not see you yesterday when you visited; I was obliged to run an errand in Green-street, and arrived home after you had left. My sister says that you met your cousin Mrs. Darcy as you left Hart House; I hope she is well?"

"She is very well," Anne said mildly, for she had no real wish to speak of Mrs. Darcy, in spite of their newfound understanding.

"Have you seen that family often, since you have been in Bath?"

"Not very often; only in company, and then only briefly. My mother and I are not particularly intimate with that branch of the family.—Colonel Fitzwilliam is the only cousin we see with any regularity."

"He is a happy man, then," Mr. Hart commented, smiling.

"Perhaps; I think it is only because he is the most obliging out of all of them, and does not so much mind our company."

"You do yourself a great disservice, Miss de Bourgh, if you suppose that your company could be a trial to any sensible person."

Anne flushed with pleasure at the remark; Mr. Hart was indeed, as he had told her, in fine humor this morning. They walked back along the path, their conversation turning towards the beauty of the flowers, and which varieties were preferable, and from thence towards the onset of summer, and which of the seasons was the most enjoyable. They faced one another again at the entrance of the park, as they said their farewells.

"I hope, as ever, that we shall meet again soon," Mr. Hart declared, giving Anne a bow. He straightened again, however, and Anne was startled to find the gentleman looking at her with a curious intensity in his gaze.

"I am sure we shall, Mr. Hart," Anne replied, smiling, "for as you once told me, Bath is the sort of place where one is for-ever meeting one's friends."

"I am flattered that you can remember so well all of the ridiculous things I have said, over our short acquaintance," Mr. Hart answered drily. "I hope—" He hesitated a moment, and then continued, sounding—of all things—rather shy. "I hope you will not take it amiss, if I tell you that I really am very glad that you have come to Bath."

Anne felt her heart leap quite foolishly, and knew without doubt that she must be blushing. "I am also very glad of it," she said, "and I cannot think why I should take such a kind compliment amiss."

To her surprise, Mr. Hart reached out and pressed her hand; very gently, and only for the briefest of instants, before he seemed to recall himself. "Well, good-bye, Miss de Bourgh," he said, with a touch of his usual assurance. "Give my compliments to your cousin the Colonel, if you should happen to see him before I do."

Anne promised that she would, and sent her own compliments to Mr. Hart's family, and, with a final curtsy, hurried back into the Royal Crescent. She could not say why she was smiling so idiotically, nor why the hand which Mr. Hart had touched seemed to tingle, ever so slightly, as she hurried up the stairs to her room.

* * *

The remainder of the day was spent out of doors, as Anne visited several of the shops on Milsom-street. She was obliged to endure the society of Miss Louisa Hammond, who had met Anne outside of the Pump-room and insisted on coming along with her to the shops; "For I have been wishing ever so dreadfully for a new ball-gown, dear Anne, as I am sure I shall soon be reduced to wearing one of my old ones; how insupportable!" Yet they were also soon met by the Miss Dillinghams, whose company was rather more bearable in spite of their tendency to gossip, and who, unlike many of the fashionable young ladies of Bath, did not live in awe of Louisa Hammond, and were quite capable of holding a conversation which did not revolve around her. (This ability was appreciated more by Anne than by Louisa, who was in fact rather put out by it.)

After Milsom-street, Anne was easily prevailed upon to attend the Pump-room itself, and sit awhile with the Miss Dillinghams and, later, the Miss Wentworths. It was a merry party, for though Anne had no particular fondness for any of the other young ladies, she thought them all quite agreeable enough. Indeed, every thing seemed perfectly agreeable to her that day; the warmth and sunshine were a balm to her spirits, and she found herself more cheerful than she thought she had ever been.

The Pump-room growing emptier in the afternoon, Anne left again, and walked along the canal a little ways with the elder Miss Wentworth, indulging in light conversation over nothing in particular: concerts they had attended, homes they had visited, people they had seen. Anne displayed her purchases to Miss Wentworth, who reacted with the admiration expected of a young lady of fashion, and their conversation turned onto matters of dress and style, which Anne enjoyed more than she ever had before.

Yet the hour growing late, and Miss Wentworth declaring that she must return home, Anne at last turned her steps again towards the Royal Crescent.

As she climbed the front-steps, she was startled by the door opening very suddenly, as if in great haste; and, to her surprise, Colonel Fitzwilliam hurried out of the house, looking markedly cross.

"Miss Anne," he greeted her, though with hardly his usual warmth. Anne paused on the steps.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam; I hope nothing is the matter?"

The Colonel attempted a smile, but it was rather bitter. "All is quite well, thank you, Miss Anne. Excuse me—" He gave a slight bow, and hastened down the steps to hail a sedan-chair.

Anne was rather shocked, and rather hurt, for never before had her cousin treated her with such brusqueness. She wondered if he had argued with Lady Catherine; perhaps it had fallen to his unfortunate lot, to inform her Ladyship of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's happy news, which could not have pleased her. Yet she could make nothing more of the mystery, and continued inside, depositing her little packages in her dressing-room for her maid to put away.

She entered the drawing-room a half-hour later, to find Lady Catherine striding back and forth across the hearth in some agitation.

"_There_ you are, Anne," her Ladyship snapped. "Where on earth have you been all this time?"

"I went to Milsom-street, and the Pump-room," Anne replied, rather discomfited.

"How very pleasant. And did you not think that I might have needed you at home?"

"I confess I did not," Anne answered, her eyes very wide, for she could not recall ever having seen her mother so angry.

"Of course you did not, for no body ever considers me," Lady Catherine spat, looking exceedingly put out.

"That is hardly true, your Ladyship—"

"Anne!" Her Ladyship silenced her daughter with a fierce glare. "I insist you will not argue with me; I have not the temper for such impudence."

Anne held her tongue, but when Lady Catherine continued to glare, she found it quite impossible to remain silent any longer. "I met Colonel Fitzwilliam as I was coming in," she began. Lady Catherine let out something very close to a snort at his name, and resumed her pacing. "He looked quite distressed; and so do you, your Ladyship. Is any thing the matter? Has there been some disaster?"

"There has, Anne," Lady Catherine declared stridently. "What do you think? Colonel Fitzwilliam, the stupid, insolent man, has gotten himself engaged!"

Anne was quite without response for a moment; but her Ladyship appeared not to notice.

"And to a girl of no birth, no fortune, and no connexions; a most odious, ill-bred little baggage. You know her, of course—that loathsome Constance Finch, who is for-ever flirting with Fitzwilliam, and has not a sensible thought in her head."

This Anne thought was quite unfair, for she did truly like Miss Finch, and she attempted to protest: "Miss Finch is a very sensible young lady, mother, and very agreeable.—I think they make a fine couple."

"_They do not_," Lady Catherine snapped.

"They have an obvious regard and affection for one another," Anne insisted. "I have often seen them together in company, and they are always exceedingly happy, and in each other's confidence."

"She is a silly, useless creature, and has interfered most appallingly with my plans," Lady Catherine said dangerously. At these words, Anne felt her heart sink; yet she resolved not to give voice to any conclusions, until her Ladyship herself had confirmed them.

"Your plans, mother?"

"Of course, Anne; can you really be so callow, or so blind? Surely you must have seen that your cousin Fitzwilliam was the gentleman I had intended for you—surely you must have noticed how often I encouraged you to walk with him, or how well I orchestrated his visits to us here. I suppose you thought it all a great lark; I see I have wasted my time."

Anne's heart sank even further. She truly had been blind, not to have noticed; certainly the fact of his being her cousin was not the only reason for Lady Catherine's continued approval of her friendship with the Colonel. How naïve she was; how insensible of every thing, including her own mother's designs! Mr. Hart, she thought sorrowfully, had been perfectly correct, in supposing the fault of seeing to lie on her side. What a fool she had been!

"I had hoped that an engagement between you might be forthcoming," Lady Catherine continued, her voice yet low and dangerous. "You spend a great deal of time together, and he has always seemed to take great pleasure in your society.—Yet I fear you have disappointed me, Anne, as you disappointed me with regard to Mr. Darcy. Are you determined to die a spinster?"

"Why did you not _tell_ me?" Anne breathed. "Why, mother, if you were so insistent that I should marry him, did you not inform me of your hopes?"

"I thought it perfectly clear," Lady Catherine retorted. "Who else should I have chosen for you, but one of our own line? His fortune and rank are not equal to Mr. Darcy's, yet he has an excellent income, and is much respected. What a fine husband he should have been to you!"

"Yes, he should have been; not because of his income, or his reputation, but because he is a good man," Anne replied, with asperity. She did not think she had ever been so angry, certainly not with her mother. "A husband is not a fortune or a rank, mother, and those things do not make a man any better."

"Fine words for a single girl of no beauty or accomplishment, who is nearly past marrying age, and whose only beau has just been snatched out from under her," Lady Catherine sneered.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam was never my beau—"

"What was he, then?"

"He is my friend," Anne responded heatedly. "He is my friend, and my family, and while I prize his society and think him one of the best men I have ever known, I could never wish to marry him, for he is not—"

She stopped, aghast, for she had been about to say "He is not Mr. Hart."

"Go on, Anne," Lady Catherine ordered after a moment. "You may finish your sentence; he is not _what_? He is not Mr. Darcy?"

Still rather shaken at her near mistake, Anne met her mother's glare with some difficulty. "Mr. Darcy?" she repeated, confused. "I do not care that he is not Mr. Darcy; I rather prefer him that way. Mr. Darcy and I should have made a wretched couple, mother, whatever our wealth, and whether you realize it or no; Colonel Fitzwilliam and I might have been happier, but it would not have mattered, for though I respect them both, I am not in love with either."

"Marriage and love are not the same thing," Lady Catherine replied coldly, her eyes narrowing. "Have you been so swept up by your ridiculous novels, as to believe that there is any thing more to a marriage than security?"

"I _have_ security," Anne rejoined. "I have a fortune which many more worthy girls might envy, and I have no need of more money; my dowry is more than enough to live upon in comfort."

"You are a silly child, if you think that is all that matters," her Ladyship scoffed, turning away. "What of your family line? What of your duty to your rank? I desire you will leave me in peace, Anne. I will see you at dinner, and we will speak further then."

Anne did as her mother ordered, unable to stop the furious tears spilling from her eyes as she dashed up the stairs.

* * *

She indulged her temper, by throwing herself down upon her bed in a very dramatic manner, like some Romantic heroine, and crying briefly into her pillow; yet Anne's disposition was more reasonable than Romantic, and her tears dried very soon, leaving her to sit up on her bed in a state approaching wonderment.

She was in love with Theodore Hart.

The sentence sounded alien to her, almost ridiculous; and yet somehow it also sounded perfectly natural, as though she had known it all along. Certainly, Anne had realized some time ago that she preferred his company to that of any other gentleman, including Colonel Fitzwilliam.

She knew that she thought him exceedingly amusing, and utterly kind; she knew that listening to him tease his sisters and brother, with such obvious fondness, gave her great pleasure, and that she was always excessively delighted when he dared to tease herself.

She knew that she respected him a great deal, that she enjoyed very few things as much as she enjoyed their conversations, and that she dreaded the idea of hurting or offending him.

She even knew that she was jealous of his attention, much to her embarrassment, when it was turned upon others; yet she had not realized, till now, that all of these facts added up into love.

The unfairness of the situation suddenly made itself very apparent. That she, with all her shyness and awkwardness, should fall in love with a gentleman, was one problem; that he should be a gentleman whom she would be no means be able to marry, was another problem entirely. Their respective circumstances and positions in life, their fortunes and backgrounds, made the match entirely unequal. Why could Mr. Hart not have been born the son of a lord, or a baronet? By virtue of his being born lower than she, he was quite as unattainable to Anne as the Prince himself (though, she thought recklessly, to her view, Mr. Hart was much preferable to his Royal Highness).

Her friendship with the Hart family was difficult enough; she had had to resort to secrecy, and falsehood, merely in order to call on Miss Rosamond, within regular social hours, on week-day mornings, when she could visit any of her higher-born acquaintance without causing the least bit of comment. A marriage, then, would be nearly impossible to bring about, especially considering the family to which Anne belonged.—She thought again of her near admission to her mother, and shuddered. How disastrous it would have been, if she had not stopped herself in time! Lady Catherine would surely remove her from Bath, banish her to Rosings Park for the rest of her days, and let no body by the name of Hart approach her ever again, even if they were no relation at all to that treasured family.

If only she were a man! If she were a man, and she had fallen in love with Rosamond, rather than her brother, the situation would not be nearly so complicated; gentlemen of elevated birth were for-ever marrying beneath them. It was looked upon as a quirk of society: not entirely admirable, yet certainly acceptable, where there was love and respect in the case. The Darcys themselves were an example of this; and they, Anne was forced to admit, were one of the most well-matched, well-contented couples of her acquaintance.

Yet for a young lady of rank to marry the son of a physician, however well-respected, was not at all the same thing, no matter how they loved one another. Every body would suppose her to have been seduced, or otherwise abused, for the sake of her fortune; and she did not know that she could bring herself to expose dear Mr. Hart (was she already thinking of him in such terms?) to the world's censure. Anne sighed and fell back onto her pillows, certain she could feel the beginnings of a head-ache behind her eyes.

But of course all of this was irrelevant, and would remain so even if it could be some-how resolved. The only truly significant difficulty was the question of Mr. Hart himself, and his regard for her. She was certain that he liked her: that he valued her society, and that he appreciated her friendship. He had virtually said so to her, this very morning (at the memory, the hand which he had pressed so gently felt rather warm, and Anne lifted it to her eyes, as though searching for signs of his touch. What a silly fool she was becoming!). Yet for him to be in love with her, was certainly too much to hope for—especially, she thought glumly, with such ladies as the handsome and accomplished Miss Cates in the question, who had a longer history and more intimate friendship with him, and was his equal in every way, and thus, Anne supposed, possessed the greater claim to his affection. It was all so exceedingly unfair!

If only she had no rank, and no fortune—what a strange thing to wish for—yet Anne could not help wishing. If only she could put the two of them upon equal footing, so that they could view one another clearly, without any obstacle, surely he would…

Surely he still would not love her, she thought miserably. For she, as her own mother had pointed out, had no beauty and no accomplishment, and very little charm. Anne did not play the pianoforte, or draw, or sing; she was a fine reader, but what use was that to any body but herself? Her conversation was hardly exceptional, however politely Mr. Hart and his sister might pretend to enjoy it, and her features were quite insignificant. It would not matter if she were as poor as any body, for in every particular, she could offer little, and paled upon comparison to other ladies of his acquaintance. Anne was not one of those sentimental young ladies, who can easily imagine signs of love and tenderness where there are none, and are content to fancy all the world enamored with them; in examining Mr. Hart's behavior to her, as she had examined, over the past week, the behavior of nearly every other gentleman she knew, she could find no trace of any thing other than cordiality and good nature, and, occasionally, the sort of fondness which he similarly showed to his younger siblings. She had been blind before, but she was certain her eyes were wide-open now, and there was nothing to suggest that she could hope for any thing approaching devotion, from Mr. Theodore Hart.

These unfortunate reflections, combined with the strain of the day, led Anne's thoughts on ever more winding paths, and before she realized it herself, she had fallen quite asleep. Her rest was troubled, and ended abruptly when her maid came in to dress her for dinner, and was very startled to find Miss de Bourgh laid upon her bed, as she had not been since the difficult days of her head-aches, long ago at Rosings Park.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** I went to Bath today! And I am in love with it. It was so unbelievably cool to actually see all of the places I've been writing about since September, and not just via Google Earth! I was rather pleased with myself when I found that there _is_, in fact, a large walking-park directly across from the Royal Crescent; I thought I made it up. And I saw a house that fit exactly into my idea of Hart House, which gave me the judders (in a nice way). I hadn't realized how wonderfully picturesque the whole city is; the top of every hill offers a gorgeous view of the surrounding valley. I also hadn't realized how many hills there were—I imagine my poor Anne must be quite tired, with all the walks I send her on! I could wax on and on, but of course that's not why you're here. Enjoy, and thank you so much for all the fantastic reviews. I couldn't ask for better readers! (Can you tell I'm still in raptures?)

* * *

Anne was tempted to claim indisposition, and refuse to descend for dinner; indeed, she was not at all hungry, and had no desire for any conversation. Yet the idea of hiding from her mother was startlingly repellent to her, for she could not bear the idea of Lady Catherine thinking her so feeble as to be undone by the afternoon's events. That her Ladyship indeed held a very low opinion of her daughter had become quite evident to Anne, and she was rather furious at the thought of appearing at all self-pitying or weak-willed.

Thus she rose from her bed, and dressed as swiftly as possible, giving little care or attention to the task. Had she been a true heroine, she might have been planning a cutting speech to deliver over the dinner table, or estimating the best way in which to make Lady Catherine thoroughly regret her actions and her words, and reform entirely; yet Anne was not a true heroine, and her mind was muddled. One moment, her thoughts were with Mr. Hart; the next, they were with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Finch. She wished alternately to be at Hart House, to be at Rosings, and to be safe in her own bed. She thought wistfully of a happy, if unlikely, future, and then of a happy, if monotonous, past. If only none of this had ever happened—if only it could all end the way she wished.

Lady Catherine had recovered her composure to an admirable degree, and sat regally at the head of the dining table. She said nothing as Anne entered the room and took her own seat; neither did she speak for several minutes, as the first course was served. The air of the room was oppressive; even the servants seemed tense, as they moved noiselessly to and from the table.

The de Bourghs ate their soup in silence. Anne kept her eyes on her plate, radiating with anger, and hurt, and sorrow. It was not until after the soup had been removed and replaced by the following course, that she at last raised her gaze to her mother's, and dared to speak.

"Are we to leave Bath, then?" she asked dully.

Lady Catherine started somewhat. "Leave Bath?" she demanded. "Why, in heaven's name, should we leave Bath?"

"If your main object in bringing me here was to secure Colonel Fitzwilliam, and he is now lost to me, I had thought we might return to Kent."

"Certainly not," Lady Catherine replied impatiently. "Really, Anne, what ever are you thinking of? What is there in Kent? Who will marry you there? No," she said resolutely, "we shall remain here in Bath, for to leave in the wake of Fitzwilliam's absurd engagement would be very much akin to admitting defeat, and it would undoubtedly cause comment. I am not the sort of person who is apt to turn tail and run, when faced with disaster."

"I see," Anne said quietly, pushing her plate away.

"Besides," Lady Catherine continued, with a rather patronizing smile, "all hope is not lost, Anne. There are several gentlemen here who might do very well for you, though I should have preferred for you to marry within our own line, so that Rosings Park might not fall into the hands of strangers. But we are nonetheless acquainted with numerous bachelors of excellent fortunes and family. The eldest Mr. Dillingham, for example, is a fine choice, though of course he has younger sisters to provide for. Mr. Hargreve is only a second son, but then so is Fitzwilliam, and his income is quite sound, at ten thousand a year.—Yet the gentleman I should most like to see marry you, Anne, is Lord Adlam; for in addition to enviable connexions, and a superior fortune, he has a title. I should dearly love to see you gain a title, above all things. Yes," she finished, rather thoughtfully, "let us make Lord Adlam your man."

"I thought you wished me to be friends with Louisa Hammond, Lady Catherine," Anne responded, taken aback. "Lord Adlam is her beau, as she has told every body."

"He is no such thing," Lady Catherine scoffed. "She thinks him her beau, the silly girl, but they are hardly engaged, nor does any such event appear to be forthcoming; indeed, he scarcely pays her any attention at all, for all her prattling on about him. Did you not see, at the Dalyrmples' ball, how easily he was distracted by Dr. Hart's daughter? You remember her, Anne," she added, at Anne's wide-eyed glance, which she took for incomprehension, "the pretty little blonde.—You should recognize her, I imagine, if you were to see her again."

The reference to Rosamond fell rather too close to home for Anne, who felt her pulse quicken nervously, though nothing in Lady Catherine's air suggested any suspicion on her part; indeed, she seemed wholly ignorant of even the faintest acquaintance between Anne and any of Dr. Hart's family, besides the doctor himself. Yet Anne was obliged to take a single deep breath, before attempting to reply. "I think Louisa is really very fond of his Lordship, and I do not think it would be in the true spirit of friendship, if I were attempt to supplant her."

"Nonsense, Anne." Lady Catherine waved a bejeweled hand impatiently. "We are not talking of friendship; we are talking of marriage. No understanding exists between Miss Hammond and Lord Adlam, and you are perfectly within your rights to secure him, where she has failed.

"This, I fear, is precisely your greatest fault: you are too apt to allow others their will in such matters, and your lack of determination worries me. Did Elizabeth Bennet hesitate to steal Darcy away from you, in the face of your impotence where he was concerned? Did Constance Finch defer to your greater claim upon Fitzwilliam? Both of _those_ girls have found themselves husbands high above their stations, where you have not, and in your case it is beginning to look increasingly unlikely. Let us talk of something else, now," she continued firmly. "You are very quarrelsome to-night, Anne, owing, I imagine, to the upsetting news of your cousin's engagement; yet I will tolerate it no longer. You will speak to me dutifully, and respectfully, or you will not eat at this table."

This speech had had a startling effect on her daughter, for though Anne was not the sort of young lady who is greatly given to tears, her Ladyship's words had left her with the overpowering and irrational urge to weep profusely, and the simultaneous desire to strike some thing with all the ferocity she could muster. Her earlier reflections upon the matter of Mr. Hart had impressed her own helplessness upon her, and to have such distressing realizations compounded by her own mother only a few hours later proved too much for Anne's present state of mind.

Wiping her eyes furiously, she managed to bite out, "It is no matter, for I have no appetite for food or criticisms to-night," before pushing her chair back and storming from the table with all of the dignity her streaming eyes and red cheeks could afford her. Ignoring her mother's shocked exclamation of "Anne!", she again mounted the grand stairs and shut herself in her own room.

Anne had thought, rather wildly, that her Ladyship may follow her, and force her to return to the dining-room; for indeed she had behaved far more insolently than she had ever before dared. Or perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson would be sent to reason with her, if Lady Catherine decided that Anne was to be treated as a fragile invalid this night, rather than merely an impudent daughter. She listened, for a time, but there was no sound of any footfalls upon the stairs, and eventually Anne concluded that Lady Catherine would likely ignore her for the remainder of the evening. That her behavior was a surprise to her mother, Anne was certain; that she would be treated to an acerbic lecture over the breakfast-table, she was similarly certain.

The trouble, of course, with storming from the dining-room, was that it left Anne with no place to go. She could not stomach the thought of descending to the drawing-room, or even walking in the halls, and meeting her Ladyship or Mrs. Jenkinson. It was far too late to call on any body, or to go walking in the public parks or gardens. A decent lady, whatever her situation in life, could hardly be seen out of doors alone at dinner-time, no matter how innocent her reasons, or how disruptive a day she had passed. Anne was confined to her room, then; for what purpose? She kept no diary, nor had she any letters to write. It was too early to dress for bed, and besides, she was not at all tired.

To her novels, then, Anne repaired, hopeful not merely of occupying herself but of utterly distracting herself. She opened _The Forbidden Room_, which she had begun some days ago but in which she had not much progressed. Had it only been a day since she had sat in the front parlor of Hart House with pleasant Rosamond, talking so eagerly, so thoughtlessly, over books? It seemed an age ago. And then it had only been this morning that she had walked among the flowers with Mr. Hart, and he had told her how _very glad_ he was that she had come to Bath—the dear, kind man—if only—

Anne shook her head to rid herself of such fruitless thought, and turned her attention to the trials of the honorable Lady Anthea, and the mystery of the forbidden room.

* * *

She slept soundly, to her surprise, and awoke shortly before breakfast. Anne's appetite had returned, though she could not help dreading the meal, for the prolonged exposure it would bring to Lady Catherine.

Yet she was surprised, upon descending into the breakfast-room, to find that her Ladyship had ordered her breakfast to be sent to her own chamber. Such a strong, active woman as Lady Catherine was hardly given to such displays of indulgence, which she tended to classify as sloth; thus Anne, eating alone, was forced to conclude that her Ladyship had as little desire to see her, as she had to see her Ladyship. The thought was a rather unhappy one, for however cross Anne happened to be, she disliked the idea of having truly hurt her mother.

What to do with the rest of the day, then? Anne sat with Mrs. Jenkinson in the drawing-room for a short time after breakfast, embroidering listlessly, yet this occupation proved tedious. No callers were announced; Anne suspected that Lady Catherine had ordered every body to be turned away in her absence. She sent for _The Forbidden Room_, and attempted to read, but the distraction was hardly as successful as it had been last night, and she was at last forced to set the book aside, having read over the same page three times without retaining a word. She attempted to engage Mrs. Jenkinson in conversation, but the lady's responses remained placid, and simple, and wholly in agreement with whatever Miss de Bourgh happened to say, so that Anne felt very sorely the lack of a Miss Hart, or a Miss Finch, or a Miss Dillingham, or even a Mrs. Darcy. She took a few turns about the room, but was yet restless; she expanded her walk to include some other areas of the house, but of course there was nothing to see except fine furnishings and deferential servants.

Yet she had little heart for shopping, or walking, or visiting; the very idea of leaving the house seemed unbearably trying to her. To go out would involve dressing again in her walking-clothes, and summoning the carriage, and choosing some place to go, and then she would undoubtedly meet some body; and despite her frustration with Mrs. Jenkinson's lackluster conversation, she could not bear the idea of being forced to chat amiably about nothing at all. And the thought of all the noise and clamor of the city outside gave her a head-ache, and the thought of the spring wind made her quite cold. Anne sighed, and fell dejectedly into one of the chairs by the fireplace. There was nothing to do at home, but she had no desire to go out. If this was what it was like to be heart-broken, Anne thought glumly, she had hoped she should never be forced to repeat the experience, for it was truly excruciatingly dull.

It was not until the afternoon, when she had been staring gloomily out of the window for some time, that she heard a voice in the vestibule. Anne had no real wish to receive visitors, for fear she should not be capable of meeting them with due amiability; not to mention, that any of her mother's friends would surely be disappointed that only Miss de Bourgh, and not her more noteworthy mother, was at home. Yet the tedium of the day had grown quite oppressive, and she rose slowly, stretching, in order to wake her heavy limbs. She was standing before the hearth when the door opened and Colonel Fitzwilliam entered, looking dreadfully serious, more than she could ever remember seeing him.

Mrs. Jenkinson rose as well, setting aside her knitting, and curtsied very low. This seemed to remind Colonel Fitzwilliam of his own manners, for he had been staring at Anne in a rather queer way, and he offered the ladies a bow. Anne curtsied swiftly, her own heart pounding. Of course this was certain to be an awkward meeting, given Anne's recent revelations regarding her friendship with her cousin, and what had been expected of it—especially the concluding outcome of those expectations. She could not tell whether or not her cousin was angry with her; she thought, with a sudden horrid sinking in her stomach, of the bitter look on his face as he had left the Royal Crescent yesterday, and the terseness of his manner towards her. She knew not whether he had any cause—she knew not what Lady Catherine had said to him, that could have hurt him, or prejudiced him against her. She swallowed hard.

"Cousin Anne," the Colonel began, but stopped abruptly.

After a moment of tense silence, Anne turned to her nurse. "Mrs. Jenkinson," she said in a low voice, "I wonder if you would be so good as to take my book upstairs for me."

Mrs. Jenkinson clearly understood the hint, for the disappointment on her face was quite revealing. "Of course, ma'am," she sighed, taking the book from Anne's outstretched hand and curtsying again to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Thus, Anne and her cousin were left alone in self-conscious silence.

"Miss Anne," the Colonel tried again, after another moment. "Forgive me for coming in so impudently; they told me that your mother was not at home, but I had hopes of speaking to you. Without her," he added.

"I am glad you have come, sir," Anne responded, although she did not feel it. "And first," (she thought to make a pre-emptive strike, which would hopefully hint to the Colonel her good intentions), "you must allow me to congratulate you on the news of your engagement to Miss Finch.—She is a worthy young lady, and I think you two very well-suited indeed."

Colonel Fitzwilliam's face cleared somewhat. "Thank you," he said, looking rather taken aback. They fell again into silence, not looking at one another.

"I understand," Anne ventured at length, quite nervously, "that my mother was not so happy at the news; and I am very sorry for it, for this is indeed a joyous occasion."

"No, she was not," the Colonel agreed ruefully. "Indeed, I think it safe to say that Lady Catherine has several very serious objections to my choice of a bride."

"Serious in her eyes, perhaps," Anne answered, "but I hope not in yours."

"Not at all. I confess, I do not think there is a woman alive who could make me happier.—I apologize," he added hastily, at last meeting Anne's gaze.

"You mustn't," Anne said softly. "You mustn't apologize, Colonel Fitzwilliam, for having fallen in love."

"I only hope I have not hurt you, Anne," he said urgently. "I am very sorry if my intentions were mistaken; I assure you, it was not my aim. If I had ever thought that you felt—but perhaps I was blind. I am deeply sorry for having ever given you hope of that kind, or inspired such affection, when I meant nothing further, and felt only the purest friendship."

"But so did I!" Anne cried, unable to remain silent any longer. She blushed, when Colonel Fitzwilliam's eyes widened with surprise, and continued at a more well-bred volume. "Do I understand you, cousin? Did you—_do_ you think that I am, or ever was, in love with you?"

"Are you not?" the Colonel replied, in some confusion.

"Certainly not," Anne rejoined, feeling quite suddenly a wild urge to laugh. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked rather indignant at her immediate reply, and she amended it. "Forgive me; that was impolite. But I am not in love with you, sir, and I never was.—I am sorry if I have given that impression; indeed, I am quite mortified if I have, for I should hate to have demonstrated emotions which were never mine. I respect you, Colonel, and have a great affection and admiration for you, but as a friend; you are more a brother to me, I think, than a husband." She stopped there, at the look of palpable relief which swept over the Colonel's face.

"I am very glad of it," he said, striding towards her. "I am _very_ glad of it, cousin Anne, for I could never wish to cause you pain. Dear cousin!" He laughed, and unexpectedly embraced her, briefly, before letting go again. "The thought of hurting you, you must know, has concerned me a great deal more than her Ladyship's disapproval; I should have hated to lose such a valuable friendship over this."

Anne smiled, rather giddily. "I assure you my friendship will always be yours, if you will promise me the same; and if you say that I may come and visit you every-so-often, when you and Miss Finch are married."

"You will be welcome with us whenever you like," Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her. "Indeed, you must come and see us, for I have no sisters of my own, nor has dear Constance, and our children will need an aunt to spoil them."

"That will be my role, then," Anne decided, pleased at the return of her cousin's customary good humor. A companionable silence prevailed, before the Colonel spoke again:

"Lady Catherine had made it sound as though you would be quite heart-broken, at this news."

It would be untrue to say that Anne was surprised, for she was not; yet she found it difficult to answer for a moment. "I hope, then," she said, keeping her tone as measured as she could, "that _that_ is the reason why you thought I was in love with you, and that it was not because of any accidental display on my part."

"I suppose I ought not to have listened to her," Colonel Fitzwilliam reflected. "Before she had mentioned it, Anne, I don't believe the thought had ever occurred to me; I thought you were fond of me, but as you have said, more like a brother than any thing else. Yet her Ladyship was quite convincing: drawing upon the improvement in your health, and your obvious happiness at being in Bath, which she assured me was all due to my company. It made sense," he added, rather sheepishly.

"Did her Ladyship tell you that I was every day expecting a proposal from you?"

"She was not so explicit. But I told you, of course, that she made several objections to my marrying Miss Finch: not the least of these was that Constance is not you. She told me that you had set all your hopes upon me, and were quite enamored of me; that you spoke of me ceaselessly when I was not by, that you attended balls and assemblies only in the hopes of seeing me, that you had been eager to come to Bath because you knew I was here, and so on. I confess I thought it odd, for I have never considered you to be so very romantic, or to be so set on any person, that you would behave so. You are a model of discretion, cousin Anne, and I have hardly known you to show your true feelings to any body. But every thing else Lady Catherine said, the circumstances which she offered as evidence, seemed rather more plausible."

"I am sorry for your trouble," Anne said quietly.

"Indeed," Colonel Fitzwilliam went on thoughtfully, "it was perhaps the most convincing argument which your mother could have made to me. She made several, you know: about my bride's lack of fortune or connexion, about her family, about my duties to my rank and my family—while my own mother," he snorted, "was perfectly pleased at the news, and is coming to Bath within a fortnight, to meet Miss Finch herself. I digress; her Ladyship's best argument, you will be pleased to hear, Anne," (he smiled) "was that you would be distraught, if the event were to occur. It was the only thing she said which gave me pause."

"Yet it did not cause you to reconsider," Anne responded, feeling rather mischievous.

"No, indeed," the Colonel said genially, "for I love Constance Finch to quite a foolish degree; and love, you know, is love."

He said it so thoughtlessly, so cheerfully, that Anne smiled; but she could not help wishing, rather sadly, that her own love could manage to be quite so simple as her cousin's.

Yet she was glad that every thing was so settled, and to such a degree that there could be no further misunderstanding between them. That she should have missed Colonel Fitzwilliam's easy company very much indeed, she was well aware; and she thanked him, for having the consideration and fortitude to converse with her upon the topic, rather than allowing their awkwardness to fester.

Anne wondered if she ought to invite Colonel Fitzwilliam to dine with them, though she was unwilling to place him in a room with her mother at the present time, for every body's sake. Yet she was saved the discomfort of the decision by his informing her that he was obliged to dine with the other officers that evening, and so must take his leave.

"But I do hope to see you again very soon, dear cousin," he assured her. "Will you walk out to-morrow, do you think? Perhaps we might meet in the Pump-room, for I have promised to escort Mrs. Darcy and Georgiana there in the afternoon."

Anne replied that she thought she might, and begged the gentleman to give her happiest congratulations to Miss Finch, when he saw her; he promised he would, and they parted from one another quite gladly, as friends.

* * *

Lady Catherine descended at dinner-time.

She did not speak to Anne as she entered the dining-room and took her seat at the table; she favored her only with a long stony gaze.

The ladies ate their soup silently, as they had the previous evening.

Anne, for her part, was in mixed spirits. Her reconciliation with Colonel Fitzwilliam had eased her mind greatly, as she could be certain that her friendship with that gentleman, and with Miss Finch, was not threatened by the present state of affairs. For this reason, she was rather more favorably disposed to her mother than she might have been otherwise; for the day had brightened considerably once she had assured herself of Colonel Fitzwilliam's regard for her. Yet the insight which her cousin had offered into her mother's movements understandably concerned her; for to have been the subject of a lie, told only to achieve her mother's selfish ends, which had furthermore been the cause of great concern to one of her dearest friends—this circumstance left her feeling quite cool towards Lady Catherine, whose silence she did not entirely regret.

Yet again, she was eager to make amends for her earlier behavior. Her Ladyship was already frustrated with the amount of independence which Anne had been claiming; to add impudence to the mix would only exacerbate the problem, and perhaps serve to change Lady Catherine's mind about leaving Bath. At Rosings, Anne thought ruefully, she had only ever been under her mother's thumb—and it was quite probable that Lady Catherine had every desire for matters to remain in that state. Thus, Anne resolved to apologize, if obliged, and to remain entirely compliant in any case. If she began "showing out," it was quite likely that Lady Catherine would remove them to Rosings without display, whether Anne had found herself a husband or no.

(_She _had_ found herself a husband, but of course he was beyond reach in so many ways—_)

It was perhaps fortunate that Lady Catherine spoke then, and interrupted Anne's train of thought, which was becoming increasingly less productive.

"Well, Anne," she said, in a tone of pure ice, "I hope you are pleased with yourself."

"I am not, your Ladyship," Anne said lowly, casting her eyes towards her plate with all the compliance she could muster.

"I am glad to hear it. The way you spoke to me last night" (Lady Catherine's voice was gaining volume now) "was thoroughly insolent, and quite unforgivable. I am most seriously displeased, that my well brought-up daughter has become such a saucy creature. I do hope this is not a behavior you have learned from any low-born acquaintances."

At this, Anne's head jerked up very fast.

"However," Lady Catherine resumed, "I am prepared to forgive you, Anne" (she took on a placatory tone) "for I realize that you are quite troubled by the loss of Fitzwilliam, and I am sure the incident has caused your head-aches to return."

"It has, your Ladyship," Anne murmured, quite relieved that no specific low-born acquaintances had been mentioned.

"I thought that to be the case. For that reason, I insist that you will see Dr. Hart tomorrow, and then proceed to the Pump-room. We must hold our heads high, Anne, and proceed with our lives, though we are shortly to be connected to a _second_ family of no renown, whose fortune and name are both inconsiderable."

"Of course, your Ladyship."

"I am quite pleased with this change in your attitude, Anne," Lady Catherine remarked, with something like a smile. "It strengthens my opinion, that your impertinence last evening was owing entirely to the distress of your circumstances. I am confident that a visit to Dr. Hart will restore you entirely."

Following this dialogue, Lady Catherine was able to continue her meal in tolerable comfort, and was even sanguine enough to hold forth upon a letter she had had from Mr. Collins, which had outlined, in painstaking detail, the current events of the parish. Her Ladyship condescended to approve of Mr. Collins' manner of expressing himself, and of the obsequious respects he sent to both of the de Bourgh ladies; and she was pleased to provide Anne with her own resolutions to one or two of the little local tribulations he had described (which solutions she would send in a letter to Hunsford Parsonage directly), and with her own opinion upon several of the news items which Mr. Collins had deemed noteworthy. She appeared not to notice that Anne scarcely spoke for the remainder of the meal, but of course this was a common enough occurrence in the household that Lady Catherine could not be expected to perceive it now.

Anne, of course, had been cast into anxiety by Lady Catherine's order that she visit Dr. Hart to-morrow; for though the visit was not one of their regular Thursday meetings, she had no doubt that she should meet Miss Rosamond and at least one of her brothers there. She was eager to see Rosamond again, for she was certain that a half-hour in the bright, tranquil drawing room at Hart House, an agreeable conversation, a glimpse of her friend's serene, lovely smile, and an excellent cup of tea, would prove exactly the restorative which Lady Catherine hoped for; yet she was uncertain how she could meet Theodore Hart now, with any degree of composure. She blushed again at the mere memory, a full day old, of his voice, his laugh, his bright cheerful eyes. How disastrous it would be, if he should suspect her feelings! It would embarrass him so, she thought sorrowfully: he would no longer tease her, no longer laugh with her, no longer offer his arm to her so gallantly.

She was miserable at the thought of being denied all these tangible signs of his fondness, however inconsequential they were; indeed, her misery quite surprised her, for Anne had not realized exactly how much she valued all of such little things. She was a fool in love, she thought drily, almost out of her own control; the only thing to do now, was to keep it all a secret.

Anne passed a restless night, filled with dreams both blissful and painful, though she could not remember any of them when she awoke.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** I'm so sorry for the delayed update—I've been travelling in Europe for the past two weeks (Paris, Venice, Greece, oh my!), and only just returned home. I really should be writing a paper at the moment, but I'm not yet prepared to forfeit the remainder of my Easter holiday to academia. As usual, thank you so much for all of your terrific feedback! I really do love hearing from you guys, and am so happy to know that people are still enjoying this silly little romance. Happy belated Easter, and I hope spring has sprung for most of you (although it's still mostly cold and gray here in London)!

* * *

Hart House had not changed since Anne's visit on Thursday; indeed, why should it? It was only Anne herself who felt as though every thing was different now; it was only Anne herself who felt almost faint with nerves (for no real reason, she scolded herself) as she passed into the familiar vestibule, and was admitted into the familiar study.

Dr. Hart rose to meet her: still tall, still gray-haired, still cheerful, as he had been only two days ago. Anne greeted him with as much composure as she could manage, though she could not help finding some traces of his son's features within the gentleman's countenance, and found it rather more difficult than usual to meet his eyes.

"Head-aches again, Miss de Bourgh?" Dr. Hart asked mildly, preliminary greetings having been concluded, as he measured her pulse. "I am distressed to hear it, for you seemed to be feeling quite well when I saw you on Thursday."

"I believe I was, sir," Anne said quietly.

"Have there been any great changes since then? In either habits or attitudes," he added, at Anne's uncomprehending look. "Can you think of any event to which you might attribute these head-aches?—Has any thing occurred to worry or upset you?"

The answer was obvious, but Anne, uncertain how proper it would be to detail her family feuds to her physician, merely shook her head. "I have been retiring later than is my custom, and waking quite early," she said instead. "Do you think I might merely be suffering from a lack of rest?"

"That is certainly a possibility," Dr. Hart agreed, checking her temperature. "You seem to have no other symptoms: no fever, no increase or decrease in heart-rate, no change in your complexion. My recommendation, therefore, Miss de Bourgh, is a few days of rest; I would advise you to abstain from large parties and assemblies, and to retire at a more regular hour, though of course you should feel free to take any exercise of which you feel capable."

Anne nodded; yet she was not entirely satisfied, and began carefully framing a question to the doctor.

"If there _was_ some thing which had upset me," she ventured warily, "and was depriving me of my peace of mind—if my head-aches were a matter of stress, and not simply a change in my sleeping habits, would your advice be any different?"

"Only slightly," the doctor said gently, meeting her eyes. "If your head-aches were due to some matter unresolved, then I should advise you to resolve it without hesitation."

"And if a resolution were not possible?" Anne said softly. "Pray do not tell me, sir," she added, with a sudden wave of irritability, "that every problem has a solution, for I shall not believe you."

"The thought had not crossed my mind, Miss de Bourgh," Dr. Hart replied with a slight smile. "It is an untrue statement, at any rate; as a physician, one learns early that there are some diseases that cannot be cured, and some men who cannot be prevailed upon to cure themselves. If you were faced with a problem with no answer, then I should advise you to take all the greater comfort in the happier aspects of your life.—I loved my wife very deeply, Miss de Bourgh, and her passing left me very low, and feeling, as I believed, utterly bereft. Yet I soon learned that this was not entirely true; for though I shall never again meet my Eleanor in this life, I have learned instead to find joy in the love and felicity of our children, who are her living memory and all the dearer to me for it. Do you take my meaning?"

Anne thought she did, but could not be entirely satisfied with it; for what had she to comfort her, in the certainty that Theodore was not to be her husband, and that Lady Catherine had already mentally married her to some insufficient Adlam or Dillingham? Yet she thanked Dr. Hart kindly for his advice and for his consenting to see her on such short notice, and proceeded into the sitting-room.

She found the two Miss Harts, both engaged in writing very diligently, with matching looks of concentration upon their faces. Rosamond, upon perceiving Anne's entrance, quickly laid aside her paper and pen and rose to meet her friend with warm affection.

"I did not know you were coming to see me to-day!" she exclaimed delightedly. "What an agreeable surprise this is!"

"I am glad you find it so," Anne replied, her spirits eased a little by her friend's kindness. "I had worried I might be imposing on you."

"That is quite impossible, dear Anne, for I like you too much to ever resent your company," Rosamond answered brightly. "Though I confess you have caught us quite unprepared to entertain.—I received a letter from Helena yesterday, and have been engaged most of the morning in composing my reply. And Juliet tells me she has been struck by inspiration, and is working very meticulously just now upon her latest work of artistic brilliance. Juliet, do not be ill-mannered, say hello to Miss de Bourgh."

Little Juliet, whose golden head had been bent over her paper, looked up quickly and afforded Anne a sweet, though distracted, smile, and a hurried greeting, before returning to her work. Rosamond sighed, though her large eyes bespoke some amusement.

"I suppose she will not be prevailed upon to curtsy," she remarked. "You know what these artistic temperaments are like. Well, it seems as though all of the courtesy of the house must fall upon my shoulders. Will you take tea, Miss Anne?"

Anne accepted gratefully. She did not know why, but Rosamond's customary amiability was more cherished by her to-day, than it had been on her last visit, as was the quiet comfort of the familiar sunlit sitting-room, and even the feel of the warm teacup in her hand. It was as though she had been starved of all of these things—or, more likely, as though her recent distress had simply made her more appreciative of the simple pleasures of Hart House.

"I hope you have not come to see my father because of some illness," Rosamond said after a moment.

"Not at all," Anne assured her. "Merely a head-ache." She hesitated for a moment, debating the propriety of her next words, but at last concluded that Rosamond was likely to hear the news anyway, being acquainted with both parties involved, and continued. "Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Finch have become engaged."

To her surprise, Rosamond merely laughed. "At last!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes heavenward.

"You expected this?"

"You did not?"

"I suppose—" Anne considered. "I suppose I did, though I never truly thought about it. I was not particularly shocked when I heard; they seem always to be together."

"And they always look more contented together than with any body else," Rosamond declared. "I think they shall make a wonderfully happy couple, and give every body else something to envy for the rest of their days. Their children can never be discontented with such good-natured parents."

"My cousin tells me I am to act as their spoiling aunt, for he has no sisters of his own," Anne said.

"You will fill that role very well," Rosamond assured her. "I suppose you will invite the little Fitzwilliams to Rosings Park every spring, and allow them to run wild over its grounds."

"I should enjoy that very much, but my mother will likely form some very strong objections," Anne admitted, smiling in spite of herself. "There has not been a child at Rosings since I myself was a girl, and I was always very quiet and serious, and never in any body's way."

"How different we must have been! For my brothers and sisters and I made all the noise we possibly could, and did our best to get in every body's way."

Looking at her friend, with her serene, pleasant manner, Anne found it difficult to imagine Rosamond ever being noisy, or wild; but at the same time, an image of five little blond creatures of varying sizes, all clever and lively and prone to affectionate bickering, entered her mind, and she was forced to concede that the Hart children had likely been quite a handful.

"Theo was our ringleader, of course," Rosamond continued. "He will deny it—he will claim that it was Helena, or even Robert and I, who caused the most trouble, but you musn't believe a word he says."

The mention of Theodore caused Anne some momentary alarm, for which she scolded herself inwardly. "Where is Mr. Hart?" she asked carefully, attempting to seem quite unconcerned.

"He has been studying all the morning, but has promised to take a respite and attend me to the Pump-room," Rosamond replied lightly. "You are very welcome to join us, if you like. We should greatly enjoy your company."

Anne's heart pounded. She had no desire to see Theodore, and yet, at the same time, her desire to see him was quite overwhelming. She was ecstatic and terrified at the idea of his company. She almost could not breathe—

"Another cup of tea?" Rosamond asked, smiling at her.

"Thank you," Anne managed.

* * *

It was perhaps not entirely prudent for Anne to make her way to the Pump-room on Theodore Hart's arm, given the likelihood of this information reaching Lady Catherine through her gossiping friends; yet Anne could not help indulging herself, in the knowledge that she could never have Theodore the way she wished, by accepting the small gallantries he paid her. Besides which, she defended herself, there was no impropriety in being on his arm, with his sister on the other.

Yet she found his company an exquisite torment, if the author may be permitted to use such a romantic term. Nothing had changed in Theodore's manner; he was as amiable, as teasing, as he had ever been, yet Anne felt as though she was hearing every thing he said twice over. She could not help imagining signs of partiality where he assuredly did not show them, and then finding equally invisible markers of his indifference to her. Perhaps most torturous was her own reaction to his company, for now she felt doubly conscious of every thing she said, and every phrase sounded, to her ears, common, dull, vulgar, and utterly without charm. She spoke with such horror of his thinking her quite stupid, that she quickly found it easier not to speak at all, and began meeting his words only with blushes and unconvincing smiles. Their conversations, then, had fallen back into the excruciating awkwardness of the very beginning of their acquaintance.

"I hope I find you well, Miss Anne," Theodore greeted her, smiling as ever, when he joined the two ladies in the sitting-room.

"Very well, sir," she replied quietly, her eyes on her lap.

"Still enjoying our spring, I hope? It is a prodigious fine one; I suspect our Somersetshire weather is putting on a show, simply because you are here."

Anne merely blushed, and smiled.

"Anne was just telling me of Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement to Miss Finch," Rosamond said, after a pause. "Although I suppose you may have heard of it already, from the gentleman himself."

"I had not heard—that is cheering news! I declare he has been quite mad with love for her as long as I have known him," Theodore replied, smiling.

"How sentimental you are, brother!" Rosamond laughed. "I suppose one cannot be in love, in your estimation, without being _mad_ with love."

"Certainly not; it is quite possible for one to be perfectly sensible in love, but it is far less satisfying, and not at all the thing. I swear I shall never act so myself."

"It should not be difficult, for you are almost never sensible in general," Rosamond teased.

"And see how happy I am! Why any body should prefer sense over sentiment is quite beyond my comprehension. Do you not agree, Miss de Bourgh?"

Anne was silent, but blushed quite profusely. Theodore's talking of love and lovers was almost too much for her. Her eyes still cast downwards, she did not notice the look of slight confusion that passed over Mr. Hart's face at her failure to respond.

"You hardly speak like a lawyer," Rosamond remarked to her brother as the party moved into the vestibule.

"Do not talk to me of lawyers just now, Rose, for I've spent the past several hours attempting to become one."

Rosamond laughed again. The young ladies donned their gloves, spencers and caps, and the gentleman his riding-coat, before emerging from Hart House into the brisk spring air, and turning their steps toward the Pump-room.

Anne did not find social grace any easier to attain once they had arrived, and promenaded with the Harts in almost complete silence, capable only of responding with "Indeed" when appealed to by either brother or sister. Her discomfiture soon seemed to spread to Theodore, who grew rather noticeably less lively, until Rosamond suggested they sit. A seat being found and procured, Theodore saw some friends across the room, and parted from his sister and Anne in order to greet them. This left the two young ladies alone, and Anne, though sorely missing Theodore's company (however little she was allowing herself to enjoy it), found herself rather relieved.

Her relief was not to last long, however, for, having smiled and nodded at some acquaintance who passed by, Rosamond turned to Anne and asked quietly, "Has your head-ache returned?"

"My head-ache? No, I feel quite well," Anne replied, confused.

"I am glad to hear it. It is only that you seem rather out of sorts."

"Do I? I am sorry."

"You mustn't apologize," Rosamond said gently. She bit her lip, hesitating, and then went on: "I am sorry if my brother has offended you in some way; I am sure, whatever foolish or unthinking thing he may have said to upset you, it was unintentional."

"Mr. Hart has said nothing amiss," Anne assured her, her blush returning.

"I am glad to hear it," Rosamond repeated. "I had thought, perhaps, he had been—too bold. It is a fault of his. As he said, he sometimes acts more upon sentiment than sense."

Anne did not entirely understand this remark, but had no time to question her friend further, as their tête-à-tête was interrupted by a declaration of "Dearest Rose!" and the arrival of Adele Cates.

"And Miss de Bourgh," Miss Cates added, affording Anne a smile that was closer to a smirk. "How charming you both look!"

"That is very kind of you, Adele."

"I hope you two have not been talking of books again; I declare, it seems to be the only subject upon which you ever converse," Miss Cates laughed, taking a seat at Rosamond's side.

"That is hardly true."

"Indeed? Perhaps I have simply been unfortunate, then, in what I have overheard of your conversations. I am glad to hear that your friendship has a deeper basis than a preference for novels over history, and the Gothic over the Romantic."

Rosamond's eyes narrowed and for a moment, to Anne's surprise, she looked almost angry—an emotion which Anne could hardly have attributed to her sweet-natured friend. Yet she recovered her smile swiftly, as Theodore approached once more and, having bowed to Miss Cates, sat down on Anne's other side.

"Every body is discussing Fitzwilliam and his bride," he reported, his good humor apparently regained. "I suppose it has been some time, hasn't it, since we have had an engagement to talk about. Yet this one is something of a disappointment, in that it has been widely expected and there is nothing scandalous about it."

"A shame indeed," Rosamond laughed. "But at least we may wish them well, without the slightest hint of irony."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam is your cousin, is he not, Miss de Bourgh?" Miss Cates asked, with studied innocence.

"He is," Anne replied warily.

"I imagine you must be very pleased for his good fortune," Miss Cates continued.

"I am very happy for him. I cannot recall the last time I saw Fitzwilliam so merry," Anne admitted, an unconscious smile crossing her face.

"And your mother, I imagine, must be very pleased indeed. Shall you attend the wedding?"

Anne hesitated. "My mother," she said carefully, "is not quite as happy with the arrangement. She may not be present at the event; but I have every hope of being so."

"I suppose," Miss Cates said thoughtfully, "such a connexion as Constance Finch can hardly be advantageous for the exalted family of Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

Anne, her face growing warm, did not reply. "Adele," Rosamond said softly, a tone of warning in her voice.

"Are these the grounds upon which your mother objects to Colonel Fitzwilliam's marriage? After all, Miss Finch is of no great family, and certainly no great fortune."

"Adele, _really_," Rosamond hissed. Anne, who could see quite clearly where Miss Cates' conversation was tending, was startled to find herself suddenly rather near tears. Had she not cried enough already?

"I believe I have heard that your mother, Miss de Bourgh, rather disapproves of such marriages—when one party is so far superior to the other, in fortune and standing. I imagine her Ladyship would not allow _you_ to make such a match."

"Lord, Adele," Theodore broke in, sounding quite impatient. "You attacked me on Thursday, and now you have shifted your sights onto poor Miss Anne, who, I imagine, thinks little more of marrying than I do. When shall it be Rosamond's turn, and Robert's? I do hope you will give Juliet at least a few years before you begin to assail her."

"I do not take your meaning, Theodore," Miss Cates said pleasantly, her eyes still on Anne.

"It seems as though you only ever talk of marriages, and there are so many other topics to choose from: the weather, the Season, balls, parties—"

"Books," Rosamond chimed in.

Miss Cates gave Theodore a charming smile, though she could not entirely keep the frustration from her features. "Can you blame a young lady of my age, for being preoccupied with a subject that is so crucial to my sex? All the subjects you mentioned are so very trifling and meaningless. I would rather talk of marriages than of nothing."

"And I would rather talk of nothing than of marriages," Theodore retorted.

"Let us talk of nothing, then," Rosamond declared cheerfully. "I believe we are quite adept at it."

"Miss de Bourgh must choose a subject," Theodore decided, "for she is our Adele's most recent victim."

"Oh really, Adele," Rosamond chided, for Miss Cates was frowning. "We are only teasing."

Anne blushed to find Theodore's eyes suddenly upon her, and was horrified to find that the entire English language appeared to have fled her mind. She cast about wildly for a subject—something to make her appear clever, and witty, and vivacious—but of course no such miraculous topic appeared to her, and at last she was forced to spit out the first word that came to her mind: "Flowers."

"Flowers," Theodore repeated grandly.

"I wonder what sort of flowers Miss Finch will have at her wedding," Rosamond mused. "I'm joking, Theo," she added, laughing, at her brother's black look.

"Did you know, Miss de Bourgh," Theodore said, turning to her, "that my sister Rose has, quite paradoxically, a deep hatred of roses? She refuses to allow them in our garden, though every body else on our street has planted rosebushes beside their front gate. Rose insists on bleeding-hearts instead."

"I do not _hate_ roses," Rosamond exclaimed. "I am merely grown very sick of them.—After a lifetime of living in a room papered with roses, and sleeping beneath a quilt embroidered with roses, and only ever being given roses, because every body thinks it such clever word-play, the charm tends to fade."

"Roses are beautiful flowers," Theodore declared, "and yours is an unwarranted prejudice."

"It is not the roses themselves I dislike," Rosamond argued, "only that their name is forever connected with mine. If my name were Violet, I imagine I should adore roses as much as any other person."

"'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,'" Anne said, surprising even herself. "But I do not know, Rosamond, whether you or the flowers have the greater claim to the word."

"The flowers, to be sure," Theodore said with certainty. "For there have always been roses upon the earth, while there has only been a Rosamond for the past eighteen years or so. Besides which, your name is not even Rose, if we are to be entirely accurate. That is only what we call you when we are too tired or impatient to say the full word. I have exhausted all my wit upon flowers, now, Miss Anne, and you must choose another topic for us."

His eyes and smile were upon Anne once more, and she felt again the same panic; yet his attention was almost as pleasing, as it was terrifying.

"Pray do not choose a subject that will give my brother another opportunity to mock me," Rosamond requested.

"I shall find it very difficult to choose a topic, then," Anne said, smiling, and feeling rather easier than she had all morning, "for I have heard that that is a particular talent of brothers."

Theodore smiled, and Rosamond laughed; only Miss Cates, who had very little share in the conversation, seemed displeased. Anne chose the topic of balls, which Theodore declared an event only useful for the gossip it produced, and generally spent in the anticipation of whatever scandals might occur.

"No body goes to a ball simply to go to a ball," he stated. "One goes to a ball only to be able to talk about it the next day."

"Perhaps that is why _you_ go to balls; I go to meet my friends, and to dance," Miss Cates exclaimed.

"That can be done at any assembly where there happens to be a pianoforte and roughly equal numbers of willing ladies and gentlemen. Balls are quite different; they are for the purpose of watching every body else, in case any thing should happen, and of course with every body engaged in watching, nothing ever _does_ happen."

"Do you argue, then, that people do not watch each other at dinner-parties, and card-parties, and at the theatre, and even here in the Pump-room? Every body who passes by us is peering at us, and even though we pretend to be absorbed in conversation, each of us is peering at the passers-by. People are always watching each other, not only at balls," Rosamond said.

"I did not say it was only at balls."

"But you did say," Anne ventured, "that that was the _purpose_ of a ball; is it not the purpose of a public place in general? There must be more to a ball, or it would be the same as the Pump-room, or a card-party."

"Oh! La, my head is in such a muddle, with all this talking," Miss Cates declared. She was smiling, yet there was clear irritation in her eyes. "You must excuse me.—I shall call on you tomorrow, Rose."

"I look forward to it," Rosamond assured her brightly. Miss Cates rose, curtsied, and was gone. Anne could not help her relief, though she endeavored to hide it, out of respect to Rosamond.

"You have made a very good argument just now, Miss Anne," Theodore said admiringly (Anne felt a momentary thrill of pride), "and I confess I cannot counter it. Will you select another topic?"

They passed their time in the Pump-room in this agreeable fashion, Anne choosing subjects and the Harts discoursing upon them, often appealing to her for support, which she gave more comfortably than she had earlier, even making her own arguments from time to time. She was pleased to find that Theodore Hart's company was, in fact, the best cure for the bashfulness which the idea of his company had induced. By the time Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Darcy ladies entered the Pump-room, and joined their party (putting an end to their game, in favor of more commonplace conversation), she had almost regained the ease which she had formerly felt at his side, though she could not avoid a certain amount of awkwardness.

And yet—

There were moments when he glanced at her, when she imagined his glance both lingering and disinterested; moments when he smiled, and she was almost overwhelmed by the longing within her; moments when he laughed at some thing his sister had said, and she wished desperately that she had been the one to say it. His society was somehow both soothing and heartbreaking, for she felt at once how happy she should be with him, and how impossible that happiness was.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note:** Again, sincerest apologies for the wait! It's been crazy: first, I had two huge papers to write. Then, literally the day after I turned them in, I discovered that somebody somehow had gotten ahold of my debit card information and spent about $2000 out of my checking account. Fortunately, I contacted my bank the second I noticed, and the problem has been more or less taken care of at this point—but that's a nightmare week that I'll never get back and I am still _so angry_. Now I have exams to study for, another paper to write, and also I woke up this morning with a sore throat, sore head, sore eyes, and generally sore most-of-me. Geez oh Pete! At this point, writing _Miss de Bourgh_ has taken on the form of therapy. Hope the rest of you had a better month than I did!

* * *

The days passed swiftly for Anne; yet she could not find in them the same easy pleasure that had filled her first weeks in Bath. Her heart was no longer so light, her days no longer so carefree; since Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement, every thing seemed somehow more complicated.

This, it must be supposed, was largely due to Lady Catherine's renewed interest in Anne's social life. Her Ladyship had resigned Colonel Fitzwilliam completely, not only as a son-in-law but as a social connexion; she had not yet retracted her household ban against that gentleman, and indeed had (rather unwisely, Anne thought) made no secret of her disapproval of the match. That Lady Catherine de Bourgh was very seriously displeased with Colonel Fitzwilliam, was soon well-known throughout the town. Anne considered herself quite fortunate that every body supposed Lady Catherine to be primarily unhappy with Miss Finch's lack of fortune and status, though she thought she had heard a _few_ whispers regarding herself, and Lady Catherine's hopes for her own daughter's marriage having been disappointed—yet these whispers were confined to a very few drawing-rooms, and Anne resolved to care as little as she could for them.

Colonel Fitzwilliam himself gave every appearance of unconcern for his aunt's irritation, and indeed appeared more completely happy than Anne had ever seen him. They met frequently in public, having more than a few acquaintances in common, and Anne, despite her duty to her mother, could not bring herself to avoid her cousin's company. She spent several very pleasant afternoons with him, discussing the upcoming wedding and, when called upon by him to do so (and she frequently was), agreeing with every adoring word he spoke in praise of his bride-to-be.

Yet Lady Catherine, having given up Fitzwilliam, had renewed her search for a suitable son-in-law—with more keenness than before, for it had not escaped her attention that Anne was to be twenty-five within a very short time, and that the threat of old maidenhood was drawing ever nearer.

Her Ladyship was not so crass about the matter as most shrewd mammas tended to be; she seldom took the approach of pointing out Anne's loveliness to every gentleman who passed, or extolling her daughter's accomplishments in sewing, singing, dancing or playing. Indeed, this approach was not to be taken, for Anne possessed neither loveliness nor accomplishment. Instead, Lady Catherine took to making sly mentions of the advantages of Rosings Park: the superb country and fine society in which it was placed, and the generous fortune which accompanied it; and she would generally finish by hinting at Anne's being her only child, and therefore her only heir.

"I am happy to have my daughter so well provided for," she would declare, "for I have always found women in possession of such an excellent fortune, or even of a _lesser_ one than Anne's, quite equipped to face the world." Of course, it was implied, a husband would be master of a great deal.

It was not a subtle tactic; in many respects it was quite mercenary; yet there was nothing to be done; Lady Catherine would have her son-in-law, and her grandchildren, and her heirs. Anne took to pretending as though she could not hear, and avoiding the appraising glance, which would usually follow, from whatever gentleman Lady Catherine happened to be addressing.

Company with her mother, then, was to be dreaded; and Anne found herself soon unable to speak to any gentleman, without Lady Catherine's questioning her directly after.

Some weeks ago, she would have taken refuge in her conversations with Theodore Hart, whom Lady Catherine would never deign to discuss as one of her daughter's prospects, even if her Ladyship had ever been more than peripherally aware of the gentleman's existence. Yet now that pleasure was—not denied Anne, for she still saw Mr. Hart quite frequently—yet not the same. Her feelings for him had struck her into discomfiture, and she could not be affable, or easy, when she was with him, and could not bear to be left alone with him, for fear she should say something utterly foolish; and she was certain that her confusion was all too obvious to him, for Theodore's eyes, when they met hers, seemed somehow regretful, and he was no longer so amiable with her as he had been. He gave her strange looks sometimes; he often looked quite hurt, almost sorrowful. The Theodore Hart who had teased her so freely, seemed to have vanished; he had been replaced by the peculiarly shy Theodore Hart, who had pressed her hand in the walking-park—yet now there was no such sign of fondness forthcoming, only a strange, sad coolness between them.

Anne could not love him any less for this, for the qualities in him which she most admired—his affection for his family, his good humor, his regard for his friends and his clever wit—yet remained. She missed him when he left the room, she wished he had sat by her when he sat by some body else, she at once craved and dreaded feeling his gaze upon her, but she could not speak to him without blushing, or casting her eyes to the ground. It was only in his behavior to her, that he was altered, and this cast her into greater confusion, and greater distress, for she wondered what she could have done to hurt him.

She thought, more than once, to broach the subject with his sister. But she could not find the courage, for she was certain that should she dare to mention herself and Theodore in the same sentence, Rosamond would immediately know the truth of her feelings, and her hard-won secrecy should be all undone.

Yet Anne could not help speaking of Theodore, when he was not by, as one can never help mentioning one's beloved in any conversation, however casually it may be done. She asked Rose where he was, how his studying progressed, whether he should attend such-and-such a ball, or such-and-such a concert. She couched her questions, as much as she could, in the veil of general interest—asking Rosamond whether _all_ the family should attend the Assembly Rooms that evening, or whether _both_ her brothers had gone out of the house. Rosamond answered Anne's inquiries with characteristic placidity, and gave no hint of any suspicions she may have had— but Anne feared that her blush, and her smile, would reveal to her friend that her thoughts were only ever upon Theodore.

There was another reason that Anne found Theodore's company such a trial. Though Rosamond seemed unaware of Anne's awkwardness with her brother, Miss Cates had certainly noticed; and Anne found that young lady now, more than ever, to be for-ever drinking tea at Hart House, sitting at Theodore's side in the Pump-room, or walking with him in the park. She was even more distraught to find that Theodore seemed, if not pleased, at least not displeased with Miss Cates' increasingly constant presence; and she concluded, miserably, that he might very easily fall in love with her.

It was not an unreasonable suspicion. Miss Cates had the virtues of being not only exceedingly handsome, but also Rosamond's _particular_ friend (a phrase which Miss Cates herself frequently employed, when Anne was present). She was also, as she often mentioned, quite skilled on the pianoforte, and a remarkably graceful dancer. She could embroider beautifully, and though she did not read novels, she was quite adept at giving her opinion, even when it was not asked for, and suffered no shortage of self-confidence. What the state of her fortune was, Anne did not know, but she suspected that the Cateses should be very pleased for their daughter to make such a match. Rosamond, she imagined, could only be overjoyed at the prospect of one day embracing her dear friend as a sister, and the rest of the Harts should surely share in her delight. Furthermore, Miss Cates was of Theodore's own class, knew many of his friends, and seemed universally well-liked by the families of lawyers, doctors, and clergymen who formed their shared acquaintance. Indeed, Anne reflected glumly, Adele Cates should make an ideal bride for Theodore; the only question now, was when he himself would realize it.

This, then, was the state of Anne's affairs some three weeks after Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement; every circumstance accounted for, happily or otherwise. As to how Anne had really passed her days—she had passed them in the Pump-room, in the walking-parks, at balls and assemblies, in drawing-rooms and tea-rooms and shops. Anne's time in Bath had been filled up with a great deal of walking, and talking, and seeing, and sitting, as is every body's time in Bath, but not much else; and she began, for the first time, to feel the stirrings of real discontent. When one's mind is uneasy, it is difficult to find the same pleasure in the merry day-to-day, as one has found in happier times. The same activities begin to take on an air of tedium, of pointlessness, and Anne found herself, having passed three full months in Bath, beginning to be rather sick of it.

She mentioned her restlessness to Rosamond one morning, when the two of them were walking in Alexandra Park; the words escaped her quite without her realizing how they must have sounded to her friend. "I am growing tired of Bath," she declared.

To Rosamond's credit, she did not seem at all offended; she merely replied, lightly, "Every body grows tired of Bath sooner or later. You have lasted longer than most."

"Excuse me," Anne said, blushing. "That was quite ill-mannered of me, for Bath is your home."

"Which gives me more right to tire of it than you have," Rosamond answered, smiling. "After all, you have always the option of leaving."

"I have not," said Anne drily, "that is my mother's decision."

"Of course. Has she given any indication of being ready to leave?"

"She has not; she still has some hope of my finding a husband.

"And you have not?"

"Not now," Anne said softly, and then regretted it.

Her friend studied her for a moment. "Had you any such hopes?"

"When I was younger," Anne replied, after a long pause. "I had even chosen my husband—or, rather, my mother had chosen, and I always expected to marry him. But of course such things never end the way one expects."

"I am sorry," Rosamond said gently, laying a hand on Anne's arm.

"I am not." Anne gave her friend a small smile. "It would not have been a good match." They were silent for a moment; yet it was becoming increasingly rare for Anne to find herself alone with Rosamond, and in her relief at their current privacy, she continued. "I am only disappointed, for I had always expected to marry."

"You may yet."

"I doubt it."

"You must have some faith," Rosamond said, giving a little laugh.

"Faith would not do much for my case, I am afraid," Anne answered wryly. "I am not like you, Rose—I am not beautiful, or amiable, or accomplished, or even young. I am twenty-four years old, and all I have to offer is my fortune."

"I should hate to disagree with you, dear Anne, particularly when it involves my sounding very cynical indeed; but money may go a very long way towards finding a husband, if that is all you are worried about. Look only at Miss Cates—she is more beautiful than I, and more accomplished, and more amiable, but she has no fortune, and she is nearly your age. _She_ is quite anxious to find a husband. Your fortune, at least, will never fade."

Anne (who privately disagreed very much with Rosamond's estimation of Miss Cates) was quite taken aback by this little speech. Rosamond, too, seemed surprised at her own words, and turned immediately to Anne. "That was quite unforgivable of me," she exclaimed, her eyes very wide. "I do apologize; you must forget I ever said such a thing. Adele is my friend, and it was terribly wrong of me to abuse her confidence, and yours, so callously."

She seemed quite distressed, and Anne hastened to reassure her; yet the mention of Miss Cates brought her mind to the subject of Theodore, and she could not help remarking, rather bitterly, that she did not think Miss Cates should remain single for much longer.

"I do not believe I take your meaning," Rosamond said, woodenly, casting her gaze on the path ahead of them.

Anne could not bring herself to make the hint any clearer. "I mean only that she seems to have a great many prospects," she said weakly.

They fell silent for a moment, before Rosamond gave another little laugh. "I can see why you tire of Bath," she declared, "for we only ever talk of marriages here. Tell me instead about Rosings Park, and what you do when you are there. Are there many families in the neighborhood?—Do you have dances?"

Anne was relieved for the change in subject, for not only did it move their conversation away from matters that were becoming ever more sensitive to her, but it seemed to restore Rosamond to her customary good cheer. She spoke of Rosings Park for several minutes, and of the surrounding country, with her friend's large eyes fixed on her in rapt attention.

* * *

Two more weeks passed, and Anne grew increasingly restless. It seemed to her as though she existed in a constant state of suspension, as though waiting for some thing about to happen, but she could not think what that might be. Every body else appeared somehow agitated. The Season was ending; several families had already taken their leave, while others were making their preparations. Bath seemed in a quiet uproar. Had she not been laid so low by the several facets of the Theodore Problem (as she had taken to describing the unsatisfactory matters of Mr. Hart, of Mr. Hart and Miss Cates, and of Mr. Hart and Miss de Bourgh, in her own head), Anne would likely not have noticed—for of course the friends amongst whom she spent the most time were not going anywhere. As it was, however, the city gave the impression of a crowded hall growing emptier and emptier, and those who were left seemed anxious to be other places.

Even the Darcys were leaving, much to every body's surprise, for they had been in Bath for less than two full months; yet when the news of Mrs. Darcy's coming confinement was made public, that family was wished much joy from nearly every quarter, with the exception of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who dignified the announcement only with a sniff.

Anne was prevailed on, by Colonel Fitzwilliam, to pay the Darcy ladies a call before they took their leave; for he insisted that it was their duty as cousins. This argument may not have been so effective if Anne, whose feelings towards Lady Catherine had not entirely recovered since their argument over Colonel Fitzwilliam (indeed, they had perhaps grown worse, with her Ladyship's continued interference in Anne's social life), did not take a certain guilty pleasure in flouting her mother's moratorium against the Darcy family.

And so a pleasant Wednesday morning saw her, at Colonel Fitzwilliam's side, being shown into Mrs. Darcy's drawing-room.

The Darcys' lodgings were located near Sydney Park, and furnished fashionably, with attention paid to all the modern conveniences; yet they lacked the ostentatious adornment that characterized many of the wealthier drawing-rooms in which Anne had drunk tea over the past months. A fine pianoforte stood in one corner (a much finer instrument, Anne noted, than the one on which Rosamond played at Hart House; yet not so fine as the one on which no body played at the Royal Crescent), a few sheets of music still scattered about the top. Mrs. Darcy welcomed Anne agreeably, if not particularly affectionately; Miss Darcy, to Anne's satisfaction, managed a rather less timid greeting than Anne had been accustomed to from her young cousin.

"We will be sorry to leave Bath," Mrs. Darcy remarked, gazing fondly about the drawing-room. "Though of course I imagine it is a good thing we are leaving now; we have not had time to grow sick of the place, and may yet reflect on our time here with happiness, and look forward to coming again."

"It is always better to leave when things are good, then to wait for them to sour," Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed, smiling. "And, of course, your departure has a favorable cause; you are not leaving in disgust or disgrace."

Mrs. Darcy laughed. "It is quite an accomplishment."

"I imagine you will be delighted to see Pemberley again," Anne said to Georgiana.

"Very much so," her cousin replied, meeting Anne's eyes, though not without shyness. "I have enjoyed being in Bath, but one always looks forward to going home."

"And you, Colonel? How long do you stay?" Mrs. Darcy asked.

"Miss Finch and I will be married from her uncle's house, but then we will be obliged to remove to the countryside, with my regiment. Indeed, there is some talk of our settling in Derbyshire; perhaps you will see us at Pemberley before Michaelmas."

"What a full house we should have then!" Mrs. Darcy exclaimed. "I am sure Fitzwilliam shall welcome you with open arms, for I have a suspicion that our child is to be a daughter; and if I should prove to be right, he shall be even further outnumbered than before.—Indeed, he will be greatly at a disadvantage, should my mother make good her threat of coming to Pemberley to tend me, with my younger sisters in tow."

"Poor Darcy!"

"And you must make up one of the number, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Darcy added, turning to Anne, "so that our victory shall be complete."

Anne was surprised, but rather pleased, to find herself thus addressed, and promised that she should visit Derbyshire before the year was complete. She was not certain how feasible such a visit would be for her, but Mrs. Darcy's smile convinced her that the invitation was genuine, and she wondered if she might not somehow persuade Lady Catherine to send her to Pemberley. It might be amusing, she thought, to meet Mrs. Darcy's famous mother, if nothing else.

"It is strange to think," Georgiana began suddenly, though she abruptly faltered at seeing all faces turned towards her, and began again, quietly. "It is strange to think, how different we all shall be, when we see each other again. Elizabeth shall be a mother, and Colonel Fitzwilliam a husband, and Cousin Anne—" She paused.

"I shall still only be Cousin Anne," Anne finished after a moment, attempting to sound cheerful, though Georgiana's pause had caused her heart to sink unpleasantly.

"That is not for certain, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Darcy asserted. "One can never tell what will happen; often the strangest and most wonderful things are those that take one completely by surprise."

She sounded very much like Rosamond at that moment, and Anne peered curiously at her; but Mrs. Darcy only smiled, and met her gaze, and at length Anne was obliged to look away.

"At any rate, Georgiana makes a very astute observation," Colonel Fitzwilliam declared. "It is always so peculiar, is it not, how one can experience such long periods of idleness, and then a great many things seem to happen all at once."

"I have often heard complaints that novels, which present their narratives in such a way, are not at all accurate; but, indeed, one may argue that true life often resembles a narrative," agreed Anne, relieved at their return to more neutral ground.

"Yet let us hope that we may live our lives with more of the comedy, and less of the tragedy, than is usually present in such novels," Mrs. Darcy said playfully.

"A wise wish indeed," Colonel Fitzwilliam said gravely, raising his tea-mug as though in a toast.

The remainder of the visit passed agreeably, and Anne was happy, upon her taking her leave, to find herself wished a very kind farewell by Mrs. Darcy, and to be pressed, by Miss Darcy, into a further assurance that she should try and visit Pemberley in the fall, if it were convenient for her.

"For I cannot remember the last time you came to visit us in Derbyshire," Georgiana said shyly, "and the grounds are very beautiful in the autumn, with all of the leaves changing colors."

Anne promised her cousin that she should make every effort, and left the Darcys' lodgings feeling rather more content than she had in days.

* * *

The feeling did not last. Lady Catherine was in a foul temper when Anne arrived home, though this fact was kept from her, by virtue of Anne's remaining in her room, until dinner-time.

She took her seat at the table, however, with telling irritation, settling into her chair with a distinct exclamation of aggravation and a sharp, cold glare in Anne's direction.

"I am most severely put out, Anne," were her first words, as soon as the soup was served. "We have been in Bath for nearly four months now—four months! And you are no closer to being a bride than you were when we arrived."

This fact had, as the reader has seen, been emphasized to Anne a great deal in recent times, and she gave her mother no reply. Her Ladyship, of course, did not require one.

"The hope of securing you a husband was our sole reason for coming to Bath. I am glad, of course, that you have made worthy friends; I believe that your acquaintance with Miss Hammond, Miss Hargreve, the Miss Wentworths and several others may one day prove very useful to you, though I wish that you had become rather more intimate with those young ladies, rather than wasting your time with the likes of Constance Finch. Yet we have not achieved our primary goal, and I am exceedingly vexed by your failure to do so."

"I am sorry to have disappointed you, your Ladyship," Anne said in a low voice. Three months ago, such a speech may have wounded her deeply, or even induced her to tears (if she happened to be feeling particularly sensitive); this evening, however, her mother's words only made her angry.

"I cannot understand how you have not, by this time, come any closer to making a match. I am sure that Elizabeth Bennet was not nearly so slow to ensnare my nephew; nor did Constance Finch show any hesitation in doing the same to Fitzwilliam. Your incompetence is quite incomprehensible to me. I have introduced you to several eligible gentlemen; I have even disposed them in your favor—"

"You have disposed them in the favor of my fortune," Anne interrupted, looking up.

Lady Catherine was taken aback. "I have used whatever tools were at my disposal, Anne. Do you think any gentleman would be attracted to an ill-favored invalid without a hint of accomplishment, if she were not rich?"

"No gentleman _is_ attracted to me," Anne said wearily. "And I am glad of it.—You must forgive me, your Ladyship, but I have no desire to marry any of the gentlemen which you have presented to me, and I should hate to break any hearts with my own reluctance."

"Your _desire_ is not the question, Anne, and your reluctance is not important," Lady Catherine said sharply. "We are speaking of security."

"I am secure," Anne insisted. "I have more money than I could ever need; if you were to die tomorrow, mother, I should be well provided for."

"You are insolent!" Lady Catherine spat. "I have no intention of dying, and more is at stake than money. Your duty, as the daughter of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, is to secure his line and his house, and see that the property which you are to inherit do not fall into the hands of strangers upon your death! Have I not made this clear to you, Anne? You are to marry and to provide me with grandchildren, and then you are to see that _they_ marry and do the same."

"If grandchildren are all you require, then any husband should suffice!"

"Have you a gentleman in mind, then, Anne?" Lady Catherine demanded, glaring. "Do not tell me you have fallen in love; I should be ashamed of you if you have."

Anne could not answer, and pushed her plate away.

"He is very unsuitable indeed, if I must judge by your silence," her Ladyship continued. "You will put him out of your mind directly; I order you to do so."

She took a few more bites in silence, apparently satisfied. "I wonder," she said at length, her composure mostly restored, "if we should not leave Bath, and make our way to Town for the next Season. It is very likely that we fare more favorably there; besides which, your impertinence has become quite disturbing to me, and I imagine you are under some unfortunate influence here that has drawn out this wilfulness. I believe Bath has quite exceeded its usefulness to us."

"Good," Anne said quietly, standing, "for I am grown very sick of it indeed."

She left the table and retired immediately to bed.

* * *

Matters came to head upon the following morning.

It was Thursday, and Anne made her way, as usual, to Hart House, where she was greeted and examined by Dr. Hart. He declared her quite well, as usual, but noted that she seemed rather tired—a diagnosis which Anne, who had lain awake and uneasy for much of the previous night, could not argue with.

Her examination concluded, Anne was shown into the sitting-room, where she joined both of the Hart twins, Theodore, and Miss Cates, currently in the midst of a debate over whether portraits or landscapes were to be preferred, or perhaps it was over the appeal of classical versus religious subjects in artworks; Anne, having entered at an inconvenient moment, could not catch the substance of the conversation. She was greeted, however, very cheerfully by both Robert and Rosamond, rather reservedly by Theodore, and scarcely at all by Miss Cates, and cajoled into taking her customary cup of tea.

They sat together for some time, speaking of nothing in particular. Miss Cates, though she directed her conversation primarily at Theodore, frequently called upon Rosamond for her opinion or for support; Anne, who was not in the most forgiving of spirits, was rather disgruntled at having her friend's attention thus claimed. Yet she was grateful to have Robert present, for Miss Cates ignored him nearly as much as she ignored Anne herself, and he was able to make Anne laugh, in spite of herself, by rolling his eyes, at very opportune moments in Miss Cates' conversation.

Anne's habitual half-hour had passed, and she was preparing to take her leave, when Miss Cates, coyly glancing at Theodore's pocket-watch, suddenly exclaimed that she was abominably late, and must fly to Pulteney Road with all haste.

"I am engaged to meet Miss Burke," she declared, laughing, as she pulled on her bonnet and spencer, "and I am sure she will never forgive me if I oblige her to wait; tiresome girl! Forgive me, Rose," (she embraced her friend, affording Anne a smug glance in the process), "and do give my regards to little Julie, and your dear father!"

And with that, she was gone.

Anne was so pleased to find herself suddenly free from the presence of Adele Cates that she settled back into her chair and accepted a second cup of tea.

The room was quieter for Miss Cates' absence. "I wonder that she was able to tear herself away," Robert remarked after a moment, rather sardonically.

Rosamond glanced at him warningly. "I do wish you would not talk such nonsense, Robert."

"I only mean that Miss Cates seems to spend every moment here; I had quite forgotten that she had other friends and acquaintances."

"Do hold your tongue," Rosamond said.

"I must say, I am rather offended that she has deserted us in this fashion. Miss Burke, indeed!"

"It is rather ill-bred of you, Robert, to ridicule Miss Cates for being engaged," Theodore said sharply.

The younger brother appeared to find this quite amusing indeed. Anne, who thought she could guess what Robert was hinting at, and more specifically which of his brother's words had induced his laughter, felt herself blush, and gazed down at her lap. She did not see the piercing glance which Rosamond gave her at that moment, nor the look of determination which suddenly crossed her fair features.

"Robert," she said, standing, "I have just remembered that there is a book which I had hoped to show Miss de Bourgh, but I cannot recall where I left it; do you know?"

"We own a great many books, Rosamond, and you cannot expect me to keep track of one, especially when you offer me no particulars."

"I believe it was either in the play-room or in Juliet's room," Rosamond replied resolutely. "Do come and help me look for it."

Robert looked for a moment as though he wanted to argue, and Anne, realizing suddenly what was about to happen, wished very much that he would; she gave him the most pleading look that she could manage; but it was to no avail, for he stood, and, giving Anne a cheerful smile, followed his sister out of the room. Anne, watching them go, could not help recalling what Theodore had told her once, in jest: that the Hart twins only ever agreed with each other when it was for some nefarious purpose.

Thus, she found herself quite alone with Mr. Hart.

They sat in silence for quite some time; Anne almost began to hope that the twins would return again without their having spoken a word. She could not bear to meet Mr. Hart's eyes for fear he should see every thing in hers.

Fortunately, Theodore took it upon himself to break the silence; but all he said was "Miss Anne—" before he paused again.

"Mr. Hart," Anne replied, quietly.

"Miss Anne," Theodore began again. "I am not certain—I do not know—if I have somehow upset you. I hope this is not the case; it was never my intention to do so. But then again," he muttered, perhaps to himself, "I can be rather clumsy."

"You have not upset me in any way," Anne assured him, meeting his gaze for a moment before looking down again at her lap.

There was another long pause.

"It is only," Theodore said, almost gently, "that you seem—unhappy, somehow. With me."

Anne did not reply. She could think of nothing to say that would not hurt him, or betray her.

"I see you with Rosamond," Theodore went on, "and you smile, and speak quite readily; when you were sitting with Robert, I saw you laughing. It is only when I speak to you that you grow quiet, and look away."

Anne was silent.

"Miss de Bourgh—Anne—" He paused again. "Please say something."

Anne could not think of any thing to say. "I am sorry," she said at last, "that I have given you this impression. You have done nothing wrong, I promise you, only—" _Only being far too perfect. Only being entirely beyond my reach. Only being the last man on earth my mother would have me acquainted with, to say nothing of marriage_. She bit her lip.

Theodore rose from the long couch where he had been seated and came to sit in the chair beside her own, facing her and, to her dismay, leaning towards her. "Only what?" he asked earnestly.

Anne did not know how to end the sentence; yet she was saved from having to do so, by the door opening suddenly, and Dr. Hart stepping into the room.

"I beg your pardon," he said, coming to a swift halt and surveying the scene before him. "I was looking for Rosamond."

"She has gone upstairs," Theodore told him, rather hoarsely, leaning back in his chair.

"Ah. Yes. Of course." Dr. Hart gave a hopeless glance at the door behind him, then at Anne and Theodore. "Do excuse me. A letter has come. From Helena, I believe. For Rose."

"She will be glad to hear it." Theodore passed his hand swiftly over his eyes.

"I—I am afraid," Anne said, very quietly, "that I must take my leave."

"Miss de Bourgh—"

"I am afraid," Anne repeated, ignoring Theodore's entreaty, "that I have stayed far too long; Mrs. Jenkinson will be wondering where I am."

"You must stay a moment longer, and say good-bye to Rose; she will be most put out if you do not."

"Miss Hart has a very forgiving nature," Anne said firmly, rising. "I believe she will understand."

"I am sure she will _not_," Theodore replied heatedly, also rising; yet Anne had already donned her spencer and bonnet. She afforded him a very swift curtsy, her eyes on the floor before her, and made her escape from the sitting-room.

"Miss de Bourgh!"

Already in the vestibule, Anne turned. She could not help herself. It was not Theodore who had called to her, as she half-hoped, half-feared, but Dr. Hart, who hurried down the hall towards her.

"Are you quite all right?" the physician asked kindly. "You are exceedingly pale."

"I am perfectly well, thank you." Anne curtsied again, and attempted to turn, but Dr. Hart caught her arm gently in his hand.

"Miss de Bourgh," he said, smiling at her, "I hope that, whatever he has done, my son has not offended you so thoroughly that we will not have the pleasure of seeing you again."

"You will certainly see me again," Anne told him. "I shall return on Thursday next." And suddenly, for no reason that she could name, she found herself very tearful.

"You are not well, Miss de Bourgh," Dr. Hart insisted. "If you will sit down for a moment—"

"I must go."

"I cannot speak for Theodore's actions, but I am sure he never intended to hurt you, in any way."

"It isn't Theodore," Anne sobbed, suddenly, quite unable to help herself. "Or, it is Theodore, but—he has done nothing wrong. It is only that I am terribly foolish, and he is—" She could not finish the sentence, and only wept, bringing her hands to her face in abject mortification.

She heard Dr. Hart say her name again, and then, to her shock, she felt him wrap his arms about her and gently draw her close. Ordinarily, Anne would have been quite perplexed at this action; but at that moment, it felt only natural to wrap her own thin arms about his solid middle, and bury her face in his waistcoat. This, she supposed, must be what a fatherly embrace felt like. It was quite separate from any experience she had ever had (that she could remember, at any rate) but, nonetheless, quite comforting. She took a single deep breath.

At that moment, the door opened.

* * *

"This, then," Mrs. Jenkinson spat, as she marched Anne out to the waiting carriage, "is why you have so carefully disposed of me every Thursday; not out of concern for my own comfort, but to enable your absurd and sordid liason with that _tradesman_!"

"It was very rude of you," Anne said, rather dazedly, "to open the door and walk in, as though it is your own home; a civilized person generally knocks."

"I did knock," Mrs. Jenkinson snapped. "Several times, and I could hear your voice behind the door—I entered the house in your best interests, out of concern for your virtue and safety. I did not realize I was too late!"

Anne sank into the carriage seat.

"How many weeks have we been visiting this ghastly place? And how many weeks have you been sending me to _coffee-shops_ while you carry on with your _lover_? Lady Catherine will hear about this, Miss Anne de Bourgh, make no mistake!"

"I am sure she will," Anne murmured, wiping the remaining tears from her lashes and closing her eyes.

"I had never expected it of you, madam; I have always held you in only the greatest respect; I have always believed you to understand what was expected of a young lady, especially one of your rank. Have you learned nothing from her Ladyship?"

"I am in love with him," Anne said quietly.

"In love! I should never have believed you capable of falling in love—not with such a scoundrel—why, you must realize your fortune is all he cares for! Men of that class, Miss de Bourgh (I cannot bring myself to call them gentlemen) are only ever out for what they can steal; and you believe yourself in love with him!"

When Anne did not answer, she continued.

"What a disgusting spectacle! You do realize, miss, that he is twice your age? That he has _children_ older than you are? He must be fifty at least! How you could ever imagine—"

"He has no children," Anne interrupted, confused. She opened her eyes.

"I beg your pardon, madam," Mrs. Jenkinson said icily, "but he has five."

"Are you speaking of Dr. Hart?"

Mrs. Jenkinson stared at her. "Are you not?"

Anne felt a sudden hysterical urge to laugh. "You believe me in love with Dr. Hart?" she demanded, unable to keep a mad grin from her face. "My God, how ridiculous! He is—he is Rose's _father_—" She stopped, took a gasping breath, and made a second attempt. "I am not in love with Dr. Hart," she said, as evenly as she could. "I am in love with his son Theodore."

There was silence in the carriage for only a moment, before Mrs. Jenkinson began again, her tones increasingly piercing.

"_Theodore_! A fine name for a worthless young man! I should have preferred Dr. Hart, madam, for he at least has a trade; he is settled; he could marry you, if the matter became so desperate; but his son is only a student, with no income or property of his own—he can do nothing for you!"

Anne, exhausted, fell back against the seat of the carriage and allowed Mrs. Jenkinson's words to wash over her unchecked. She knew now, without wishing to, what it was she had unconsciously been waiting for, so apprehensively. Every good thing must end, she thought wretchedly; she supposed she ought to have seen it coming.


	15. Chapter 15

The reader must naturally have deduced that Lady Catherine could not be pleased with the report of Anne's actions, which Mrs. Jenkinson helpfully provided her almost immediately upon their arrival at the Royal Crescent. She was, indeed, undeniably outraged, and, finding herself rather incapable of addressing her daughter at the present time, ordered Anne to remain in her room until supper, when, Lady Catherine promised, she would take every pain to make her feelings on the matter as clear as she possibly could.

Anne, still rather overcome, was glad to escape to the solitude of her bedroom, at least for the afternoon; yet, once she had shut the door behind her and sunk against it, she found herself restless again.

She had come too close! She shut her eyes tightly, as though to guard against the mental images that assailed her. The memory of Theodore's expression—so beseeching, so vulnerable—tormented her. How distressed he had looked; how discouraged when she rose to leave! It was fortunate for her that Dr. Hart had come in when he had, or she had no doubt that her resolve would have broken, and she would have confessed every thing. And then—Theodore would be so mortified (she shut her eyes again); she could imagine his leaning away from her, perhaps even rising to cross the room, and lean against the mantle-piece on the far wall; she could imagine his stiff, awkward response. _"I am very sorry, Miss de Bourgh, to have affected you in this way; it was never my intention; of course, you must understand that I have the strongest feelings of friendship for you; but as to _love_—"_ Oh, God, such humiliation! She should never again be able to meet his eyes! Though it was only the Theodore in her head who was speaking, Anne felt herself blush very hotly, and, with a groan of frustration, flung herself onto her bed.

She lay there for some time, thoughts whirling disconnectedly through her mind. She realized that she had never said good-bye to Rosamond or Robert, or even Dr. Hart, so swiftly had she been removed from Hart House. She wondered which was the book that Rosamond had wanted to show her (but then, thinking again on the matter, realized how very foolish she was being—of course there had been no book). She hoped, spitefully, that Miss Cates was not enjoying her afternoon with her friend, and wished the day was not so fine.

Anne had slept very ill the previous night, and recent events had left her quite fatigued. It is very likely that, at some point during these confused reflections, she fell into a troubled sleep, though she could not remember doing so; for she did not stir again until her maid came in to dress her for dinner.

"I am quite put out, Anne," were Lady Catherine's first words to her daughter, upon their sitting down to dine. Anne made no response; she was too tired, too overwhelmed, to think of any thing to say, in defense or in apology.

"_Quite_ put out," her Ladyship continued, fixing Anne with a frosty glare, "and yet, I cannot entirely say that I am surprised. It has been evident from your insolent manner, your thoughtless disobedience, and your refusal to make yourself pleasing to the worthy ladies and gentlemen of our set, that you have been for some time influenced by parties whose manners and characters are less than equal to our own. I confess I may have been remiss, in allowing you so much freedom; yet I had always believed you to well understand the duties and demands of our rank, and the cautions we must take, to keep our reputations intact."

"I have done nothing indecent; my reputation shall surely survive," Anne said tiredly.

"Indecent? Mrs. Jenkinson tells me that you claim to have fallen in _love_ with this gentleman, this—this Mr. Hart." Lady Catherine sneered. "To have allowed persons of such low rank, who can be of no use to you, to consider themselves your _intimate friends_, is one thing; but to have formed such an improper attachment! Is this, then, why you have so callously dismissed the more suitable gentlemen to whom I have introduced you?"

"It is," Anne confessed, too drained to deny any thing.

"And _this_ is the man you think you will marry?" Lady Catherine scoffed. "You fancy yourself Mrs. Hart, the barrister's wife?"

"Only if he should ask me; and I think that possibility very remote indeed."

"A small mercy," her Ladyship snapped. "Well, you will not see them again; that much is certain. Henceforth, we shall have nothing to do with Dr. Hart or his wretched family.—This forlorn, pining manner does you very little credit, Anne; I have always thought it pathetic in other women, and it is doubly so in my own daughter."

"I apologize if I am offending you."

"There is but one solution, then; we shall remove from Bath immediately."

Anne had expected this. Indeed, she had been rather surprised when these words had not been the first from her mother's mouth. Yet to hear them was worse than she had anticipated, and she laid down her spoon for a moment, unable to take another bite.

"I shall begin preparations directly, and we shall be gone before another week is ended," Lady Catherine said decisively. "Eat your soup, Anne."

They ate in silence for a moment, before Lady Catherine spoke again.

"I believe," she said, rather more sedately, "that a summer at Rosings will cure you of this ridiculous _amour_, and that it will prepare you to take every advantage of a Season in town. I am confident that a separation from this Mr. Hart will help you to recognize how entirely unacceptable he is, and you will then be more able to form an attachment to the gentleman who will make you a proper husband."

Anne had very little hope of this, but said nothing, and continued to eat her soup.

* * *

True to her word, Lady Catherine gave orders for the packing to begin on the following morning. Their lodgings were cleaned, thoroughly, and some of the lesser rooms were closed as early as Saturday, which was two days after Anne's visit to the Royal Crescent. Furthermore, final payments and an official notice were sent to Dr. Hart, informing him that Miss de Bourgh was no longer to be considered among his regular patients.

Lady Catherine carefully monopolized Anne's time. Under the guise of bidding their final farewells to all their acquaintance, she conducted her from drawing room to drawing room, obliging her to sit and drink tea with all of the people whom Anne could happily have left without a backward glance, while keeping her from saying good-bye to those whose company she would truly miss. The Hargreves, the Wentworths, the Hammonds, the Godards, the Derrings; all of them expressed their deepest regrets at the de Bourghs' going so soon, before changing the subject to some undeniably more interesting item of gossip. Only the Dillingham twins seemed at all sincere in their farewell, despite Louisa Hammond's great show of distress at the departure of her "dearest Anne," who would no doubt be forgotten within a fortnight.

Her Ladyship's social schedule kept Anne occupied for much of the week. It was not until Wednesday, the day before their intended departure, that Lady Catherine was engaged in overseeing the packing of her gowns, and Anne was at last able to slip away from the Royal Crescent, alone.

Bath had never looked so beautiful to her as it did now through the windows of the carriage. Every body seemed handsomer and happier; every thing seemed more lively and cheerful. The day was fine and warm, with the scent of springtime in the air, and the overwhelming bliss of it all was such that Anne leaned her head against the carriage window and closed her eyes. With her removal from Bath looming on the morning's horizon, she was unable to be tired of it any longer, and wished desperately to stay in this moment, and never move to the next one; to gather all of Bath, all of its people and its sunshine and its flowers, into her arms, and carry them with her for-ever.

Anne alighted before the steps of Hart House, and took a single deep breath. She was uncertain of her reception, given the circumstances of her last departure; yet she knew she could never forgive herself, if she left Bath without saying good-bye. She took another breath, climbed the steps, and knocked on the door.

"Anne—dear Anne!" were Rosamond's first words, as Anne was shown into the front parlor. She rose from the settee and wound her arms about Anne's neck in a fierce embrace. Anne, surprised, returned the embrace after a momentary pause.

"Do let the poor thing breathe, Rose," Adele Cates drawled, and Rosamond, looking rather embarrassed, released her. Anne stepped back, taking in the scene. It was only the two young ladies present. She felt her heart sink. That Theodore was not there was one thing; but to have Miss Cates by, for her final visit with Rosamond, seemed rather cruel.

"I apologize—it is only—you left so hurriedly last time, and now I hear that you are going away from Bath," Rosamond said, worry in her eyes. "I had hoped that it was not true; but I see by your look that it is. Well!" She sank again onto the settee.

Anne took her accustomed seat and accepted the offered cup of tea. "I am very sorry I could not come sooner," she said quietly. "I have been kept busy all week, paying final calls among my acquaintance—"

Miss Cates snorted, and Rosamond, to Anne's surprise (and, it seemed, Adele's as well), gave her a very black look. "You need not make any excuses," she said, kindly, turning back to Anne. "I am glad that you have come at all; I could not bear your going away, if I was never able to say a proper good-bye."

Anne tried to think of something to say, for Rosamond's expression was so very sad, that she wished more than any thing to comfort her somehow. But nothing suggested itself, and to her horror she felt tears gathering behind her eyes.

"I don't want to go," she burst out, quite suddenly, quite wretchedly. Rosamond laid a hand on her harm.

"Surely you will come again—"

"That is not at all certain," Anne told her sorrowfully. "My mother has been disappointed in Bath; I doubt she will ever wish to return."

"Might you come without her?"

Anne laughed bitterly. "She would never allow such a thing. If I come without her, it is only because I am married to some horrid earl's son or baronet's nephew, and then I am sure I shall not see you. I am sure I shall never see you again." She felt the tears begin falling, and wiped at her eyes crossly.

"You cannot be sure," Rosamond said, pensively, after a long pause. "The world, you know, is very large, and we only live in one small part of it. Indeed, it is very small. Do you know that there are fields and forests in America bigger than all of England? In such a confined space, we must certainly meet again one day."

"Not for many years, perhaps."

"Perhaps not," Rosamond admitted. "But then, if so much time has passed, we shall have such stories to tell one another."

"I doubt it," Anne said miserably. "_You_ may have stories to tell _me_, but my life has always been the same, and always will be. I shall be the same Anne in fifty years, as I am to-day."

"I am glad of it," Rosamond said, smiling, "for I love that Anne very much indeed, and shall be as delighted to see her again in fifty years, as I am to-day."

It was, as far as Anne could remember, the first time any body had said that they loved her, and she was for a moment so dumbfounded that she sat in silence, meeting Rosamond's serene gaze with a rather stupid stare of her own. Yet she could not allow such a remark to pass by undistinguished, and reached forward to clasp Rosamond's hand.

"I am very glad to have known you," she said, unable to say any thing more.

"I shall write to you," Rosamond promised, "and you must write to me; I will tell you what books I have read, and send you lines of Juliet's poetry, and describe all of the foolish things my brothers say and do each day, and it will be as if you never left."

"I would like that above all things," Anne replied quietly.

Rosamond smiled, and squeezed Anne's hand gently. "Wait here a moment," she ordered, "and I shall fetch the others, for you must say good-bye to them as well."

Anne nodded, though her heart clenched painfully at the thought of seeing Theodore again, especially under such circumstances; but she must, she told herself. For her own sake, she must see him one last time, and then never again. Rosamond squeezed her hand again, before hurrying from the room.

Miss Cates had been quite uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange, and Anne looked at her, rather grateful. Yet the lady seemed to have no intention of remaining in Anne's goodwill, for she said now,

"I suppose I must congratulate you, Miss de Bourgh, for you have proved quite an admirable rival."

"I beg your pardon," Anne answered, puzzled.

"In the matter of Theodore, I mean," Miss Cates went on, smiling. "You must not be so coy; you have been as aware of our competition as I have."

"I do not understand," Anne said stiffly, though her heart was racing.

"I am sure that is not the case," Miss Cates said carelessly. "I am not too proud admit that I was concerned, for a time, particularly after the fancy-ball, where he danced with you twice.—I do not blame him for his attention to you; a handsome fortune quite often holds twice the attraction of a handsome figure."

"You are quite mistaken, Miss Cates; Mr. Hart has never cared for my fortune," Anne replied frostily.

"My dear Miss de Bourgh, that is all he has ever cared for," Miss Cates sneered. "Are you so naïve? Theodore has not the temperament for any of the professions; though he studies the law, he would rather marry a wealthy bride, and live as a gentleman, and he knows this. You must have noticed the alteration in his manner to you—think now. Did it not begin after your cousin became engaged to Constance Finch, and your mother made her disapproval of such marriages perfectly clear to every body in Bath?"

Anne bit her lip. She had thought that her manner to Theodore had changed first; but she could not now be certain, for Miss Cates seemed quite sure of herself. The announcement of Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement, the revelation of her feelings for Theodore, the growing awkwardness between them—all had occurred more or less simultaneously. Was it not possible that he had been a little cooler to her, after her mother's dispute with Colonel Fitzwilliam became so public?

"I daresay he lost interest in you," Miss Cates was saying nonchalantly, "once he realized that your mother would never condone such a match, and therefore your fortune may as well be lost to him. I am glad _Lady Catherine_ was so clear about her feelings on the matter, or he may have continued trying to win you for some time, before realizing it was fruitless."

"Miss Cates," Anne said angrily, confused, "I believe you forget your place."

"I know my place very well, Miss de Bourgh, and it is nothing like yours," Miss Cates spat, her languor vanishing. "I have no fortune; I have no rank. I have no brother to support me, nor inheritance to rely upon. My mother maintains my sisters and me on what our father left her, and what our kind uncles will give her, and we are only growing poorer. My place, Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park, is at the side of a good man with good prospects, who can give me a home of my own. Your place is at the side of some horrid earl's son or baronet's nephew, as you said yourself. You have enjoyed your flirtation, and you can go home now."

Anne stared at her. It was a side of Miss Cates that she had never seen—desperate, bitter, and honest. "I am in love with him," she said dumbly, unable to stop the words from escaping.

"He does not love you," Miss Cates replied, her eyes narrowed. "I imagine he liked you, at some point; he certainly liked the idea of your fortune; but that is over now. I daresay he and I shall be engaged within a fortnight."

This last was no more than what Anne herself had conjectured, as she observed the relationship between Mr. Hart and Miss Cates; but it hurt so to hear it spoken aloud, that she felt as if the breath was drawn from her. She had known that Theodore did not love her; she had never expected him to, she had only ever hoped; but the idea of his wooing her for her fortune—of her having been duped, and passed over when his plans did not come to fruition—she was confused, mortified, furious, and suddenly every part of her body seemed to ache, and her head was swimming. She wished that Rosamond would come back, that Miss Cates would leave, that every thing would go back to the way it was before—before what? She did not know, but she was certain every thing had been better then.

Yet there was no more time for thinking, for Rosamond did come in just then, with her brothers and sister and father at her back. And then it was all a blur: a clasped hand and a heartfelt farewell from Robert, a curtsy and a dimpled smile from Juliet, a bow and a kind word from Dr. Hart, two more embraces from Rosamond, and from Theodore—

Anne met Theodore's gaze coldly, her humiliation burning within her. She did not dare credit Miss Cates' account of his actions (his expression, only days before, when they were alone in the drawing-room, had been so pleading), but she could not help the livid doubts that plagued her. His smile, she felt, was arrogant; his bow mocking; his words insincere. The memory of her near-confession to him (_Oh, God_) made her flush all over with shame. What a fool she should have been! Not only a fool, but a joke, a silly child with a head full of novels. She gave him only a nod and a half-smile, and as he reached for her hand, as Robert had done only moments before, she could not help but flinch it away and, in an attempt to cover the action, turn to Rosamond again.

"I shall miss you more than any body else in Bath," Anne whispered, pulling her friend close for a final time.

"I will write to you," Rosamond promised, and as they separated Anne was shocked to find her friend's wide gray eyes swimming with tears. Rosamond similarly seemed surprised, and brushed at her eyes impatiently. "I am being a fool, now," she laughed. "I shall write to you every day, and you must answer."

"I will," Anne assured her, blinking her own tears away. "Good-bye—good-bye—"

They followed her into the vestibule, pressing their farewells upon her, and even onto the front-stairs, as she climbed into her carriage and gave the order. She turned, looking out of the window. The last sight that caught her eyes was of Theodore, tall and almost handsome, standing a little apart from his family and staring after her carriage, looking—of all things—troubled, as though he'd lost something.

* * *

Anne returned to the Royal Crescent to find Lady Catherine still occupied with supervising the servants; indeed, her Ladyship appeared not to have noticed that Anne had even gone. Taking advantage of her mother's distraction, Anne escaped to the walking-park across the road, and stood for some time on the top of the hill, looking down.

She could see much of the city from there, and beyond it the hills and valleys that rose about the River Avon. The wind was light, the afternoon sunshine being slowly covered by darkening clouds. She wondered if it would rain; it would do the flowers good. The day was still warm, and she unwound her shawl from about her shoulders, holding it instead in her hands. This was a moment, she thought very distinctly, that would never come again.

"Miss Anne!"

She turned. Walking along the path towards her was Colonel Fitzwilliam, his hand raised in greeting. She smiled at him, rather absently, and stood still, allowing him to reach her.

"I have called at the Royal Crescent twice this week," the Colonel told her, coming to stand at her side. "But it seems you have not much been at home.—I was sorry to hear of your coming departure for Rosings."

"But not surprised, I imagine," Anne said, looking out over the valley.

"No, indeed," the Colonel agreed.

They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, admiring the view. At length, Anne turned again to her cousin.

"I wish I could have been here for your wedding," she said quietly. "I should have liked to see it."

"I should have liked you to see it; but you are not missing very much. It shall be a small affair, simple, without much show or ceremony. I daresay Lady Catherine would think it a very poor event indeed. And you have already promised to be Aunt Anne for-evermore to all of our children, so you will not be entirely excluded."

Anne smiled. "It is a promise I shall be happy to keep."

There was a pause. "I do not think," Colonel Fitzwilliam said at last, "that Lady Catherine will be happy to see me at Rosings in the fall, as is our custom."

"No," Anne agreed, "I do not think she will, especially if you bring your wife."

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded.

"But," Anne said, looking up at him, "I will be happy to see both of you. Her Ladyship, you know, is not the only one who may have guests at Rosings Park."

Her cousin laughed. "I shall see you in the fall, then, cousin Anne; and then again, I hope, at Pemberley; for you cannot refuse Georgiana's invitation."

"I shall do my best not to disappoint," Anne said, giving him a smile. He leaned down and folded his arms about her, pressing his lips gently to her forehead for the briefest of instants.

"I shall miss you very much, dear cousin," he said softly.

"Until the fall," she reminded him.

"Until the fall," he agreed, laughing again. Anne curtsied, and requested that he give her kind wishes to Miss Finch; he offered a bow, and assured her that he would do so; and they parted.

* * *

The morning found the furnishings covered, the floors cleaned, the clothing and books packed away in trunks and stowed securely. The de Bourghs' lodgings at the Royal Crescent were empty, and very, very still. Anne walked through one last time, running her fingers over the cloth that covered the tables and watching the play of her shadow on the gleaming sunlit floors. She felt—vacant, somehow, as though every thing she had seen and heard and felt over the past weeks had disappeared, leaving only a shell behind. She remembered things (balls, parties, cups of tea), but they seemed a lifetime ago. _Here_ she had sat with Dr. Hart as he invited her to Hart House; _here _she had flung her embroidery aside in aggravation;_ here_ had stood Elizabeth Darcy, defiant and poised; _here_ Colonel Fitzwilliam had embraced her and called her "dear cousin." So many moments belonging to a house where she had stayed for only three months! Anne turned in a slow circle, surveying the bare drawing room. How strange it felt, to be going. It was as though she had lived all her life in Bath.

"Anne!" Lady Catherine called sharply, from where she was being handed into the carriage. "We are leaving now; come and take your place."

Anne gave the house a final glance, before she hurried out and into the waiting carriage.

They drove swiftly through the streets of the city. Anne caught glimpses of ladies and gentlemen, children and nursemaids, servants and shopkeepers, hurrying to and fro across the streets and between the shops. They rushed past the Assembly-Rooms, past Queen Square, along Chapel Row and James Street, past the Abbey and the Pump-Room—then they were over the river and cantering past houses and parks, and then before Anne knew it the houses were growing further and farther between, and they were out of the city, and rushing east through the countryside, towards Kent and Rosings Park, and home.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry it got sad. But you knew it had to happen.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** I have been to Bath again! My parents have been visiting me here in London for the past week or so, and we took a lovely day trip out there. Mostly I just wanted another Sally Lunn bun (delicious!), but I also got to do a few of the things I missed on my first visit: the Jane Austen Centre, the Fashion Museum at the Assembly Rooms, the Royal Crescent. We also had much nicer weather—it was freezing cold and rainy last time I went—so we walked through Royal Victoria Park in the sunshine. It was truly wonderful! The parents leave tomorrow, but my dearest friend in the world has arrived to fill the void. And then I go home to Brew City USA in two weeks. Summer is on its way! And we're getting near the end of this story (maybe two chapters left after this one?). What am I going to do when it's over?

* * *

Their arrival at Rosings Park was a quiet one, Lady Catherine having been tired by the long journey from Somersetshire and not allowing much fanfare on their return. Though she did not deign to appear hurried or eager, her Ladyship had given the impression that she quite desired to be at home, and the coachman had urged the horses on accordingly, resting only when necessary. The ladies arrived late in the evening of the second day, having stopped overnight at an inn near Guildford, and took only a light supper before retiring.

Anne had been in something of a stupor throughout the journey. She did not allow herself to think overmuch, preferring instead to focus all her attention on a determined admiration of the passing countryside, but she could not stop her mind wandering sometimes to random and scattered images. The front-hall at Hart House; the interior of the Assembly Rooms; the view from her window at the Royal Crescent; the exact gray-blue of Theodore's eyes—it was here that she stopped herself firmly, and compelled herself to notice how charming were the rolling green hills around them, and what pretty wildflowers were growing along the sides of the road.

Her patience for delightful vistas, however, was gone before long, and she took to reading. Yet this, combined with the jolting motion of the carriage, made her head swim somewhat, and she was soon obliged to put her book away. There was no conversation to be had. Mrs. Jenkinson had scarcely dared to speak to her since her "rescue" from Hart House, whether out of disapproval for Anne's actions or shame for her own, Anne could not be sure; and Lady Catherine had fallen asleep quite soon after their departure from Bath, and would not take kindly to being awakened. Thus, Anne's eyes drifted again to the window, and the charming hills, and the pretty wildflowers, and before she was quite aware of it, she had dropped into a light but soothing doze.

She awoke when they paused to water the horses, and took a few turns about the inn-yard to stretch her legs, before she was again bundled into the carriage and again watched England pass her by. This pattern repeated itself over the course of that day, and the day following, before at last the country grew familiar, and she began to recognize the houses and lanes of Hunsford Village. They passed by the church, and the cozy parsonage, with its lights all aglow, and several miles of the de Bourghs' own parklands, until, the carriage slowing, they turned up the wide, well-known drive and made their way through the carefully kept lawns and gardens, drawing to a halt at last before the imposing façade of Rosings Park.

It was a fine prospect—the sun was setting behind the house, the sky darkening above it, and a few stars just emerging to the east. The trees and flowers surrounding the drive were blooming marvelously (Anne, whose nose and throat were occasionally sensitive to the various dusts of springtime, sneezed delicately into her handkerchief as she alighted). The lights of the entrance hall blazed a warm welcome, and the windows gleamed in the dusky half-light. Yet, like her first arrival in Bath, the beauty of the scene was quite lost on Anne, who was tired and sore, and wished nothing more than to be in bed. She nodded to the row of bowing footmen who awaited the ladies on the stairs, before brushing past them and into the house.

Supper was a simple, silent affair, Lady Catherine not being disposed to talk and Anne having nothing to say at any rate. She had forgotten how quiet Rosings Park could be when Lady Catherine was not having her say. She had grown accustomed to the distant hum of city life: the rattle of coach-wheels and voices in the street, the quiet footsteps and chatter of servants whose quarters, in the rather more limited space of their Bath lodgings, were not nearly as far from above-stairs. Here, there was only the clink of cutlery on dishes, the whispery crackle of the fire, and the soft tick-tock of the grand clock in the entrance hall. Anne could not help feeling that none of it was quite entirely real. The familiar paintings and statues and furnishings surrounding her seemed rather half-remembered, as though she had dreamt them, and she felt almost as if she should wake again at any moment to find herself again in the Royal Crescent, with the sun shining on the creamy Bath-stone buildings beyond.

This, of course, was not the case, and from supper Anne drifted upstairs to her own room. Her own room! How odd it seemed to her now; how large, how still, and yet how familiar. These were her things all about her: her bed, her writing-desk, her wardrobe, her dressing-table. The paintings on the wall were the same she had seen every day of her life. But it did not seem real to her, and she thought how odd it was that she had not missed any thing in this room while she had been away, for, after all, these were her things.

"Is it not very strange, Sarah, to be back again at Rosings Park?" she said, distractedly, to her maid, who had come in to undress her.

"Strange, miss?" her maid replied indifferently. "I suppose it is, after such a long absence. But it is good to come home."

"I feel as though I ought—to be someplace else," Anne went on, rather dreamily.

"Indeed, Miss de Bourgh?" Sarah peered at her, looking vaguely concerned. "I hope you're not feeling feverish, miss?"

"No, no," Anne waved her concern away. "Quite well, only very tired."  
"Of course, miss. I'll be hurrying, then." The maid briskly helped Anne out of her petticoat and stays. Anne donned her nightdress; the maid turned down the bed; the window was opened an inch or two (against the orders of Lady Catherine, who had always been anxious about the effect a night draft may have on her delicate child). The bed was as warm and soft as Anne remembered it, and she sank gratefully onto her pillows, the strain in her back and neck easing as she stretched. Though she had spent a good deal of the carriage ride half-asleep, Anne found that she was very tired indeed, and she fell asleep almost immediately.

* * *

What, exactly, did she ever _do_ at Rosings Park? This was the question which troubled Anne upon her waking in the morning. She breakfasted with Lady Catherine, then returned to her room to dress; but what was she dressing _for_? There were no calls to pay, no Pump-room or tea-shops to visit, no acquaintance to be met with. She examined her image in the looking-glass rather unhappily. The peaceful night's rest had done her good; she was looking quite well to-day, perhaps even slightly pretty, but there was no body to see her. How provoking!

Anne slipped out into the gardens as soon as she had finished dressing, taking only a light shawl with her. This, at least—walking—remained the same in both Bath and Kent. She was pleased to find the gardens in almost full flower, only a few coy buds not deigning to bloom as yet. The entire air was scented, and the bushes hummed with the sound of busy honeybees. One or two gardeners were going about their work in the morning sunshine; they bowed to her, murmuring their greetings, as she passed. It was an almost entirely agreeable experience, but she could not help missing the anticipation of possibly meeting some friend or other, which had often characterized her walks in the public parks of Bath. Here, she was very much alone; she had left even Mrs. Jenkinson behind.

She should have been a very poor friend, and an even worse scorned lover, if her solitude did not instinctively turn Anne's mind to the people she had left. She relived, with mingled pain and happiness, the moment when Rosamond had stood to embrace her, had called her "Anne—dear Anne!" as she entered the parlor. She had been fortunate, she reflected, to make the acquaintance of the Harts, or she should have been obliged to suffer the constant company of Louisa Hammond and her friends; and who knew, then, how Anne's time in Bath might have ended? Perhaps she _would_ have married—perhaps Mr. Hargreve or Lord Adlam would have suited her after all, if she had never met a gentleman she truly admired. Yet she could not see herself being happy with any body, except—

Anne had left the orderly stone paths of the gardens, and strayed into the park beyond. She rarely came this far from the house; before going to Bath, her walks had been restricted to a few turns amidst the rosebushes for a half hour or so, before she was hurried again into the house and obliged to sit for a time in the parlor with the curtains drawn, to lessen whatever poisonous effects the sun may have had on her. Now, left to her own independence, she wandered into a pleasantly shady grove of trees, with a wide grassy avenue leading towards the village. She vaguely remembered, as a very small girl, traipsing over the woods and hills of Rosings Park with Sir Lewis, but for the past several years she had only ever seen these places from the windows of the manor. She was struck suddenly by the extreme absurdity of owning lands which one had never walked on, or even seen, for the sole purpose of _owning_ them—not to farm, or to rent. The rich, she thought with a sigh, could be very stupid indeed.

The novelty of her surroundings was not enough to distract Anne's mind completely from her contemplation of people, and of course the name _Theodore_ was now foremost, for it could not be avoided. She regretted, rather bitterly, having left him with no more kindness than a half-smile and a faint "Farewell," for surely Miss Cates could not have been speaking the truth about him. All circumstances were against it: the fact of his being sweet Rose's brother, and good Dr. Hart's son; having been raised in a family which, as he himself had avowed, prized frankness and honesty above every thing; a man so auspiciously situated could never be a fortune-hunter. It was quite impossible; Miss Cates had spoken in anger, and was possessive of her suitor to the point of abusing him to other women.

Yet Anne's own peculiar vanity, which had been rather abused by her realization that her love was unrequited, interjected insidiously: _But it could be true_. Why else would he appear to favor her, and then shift his attentions so rapidly? After all, Theodore's conduct towards her had cooled considerably only after Lady Catherine had publicly disapproved of Colonel Fitzwilliam's marriage to Miss Finch, and that lady had certainly made no secret of the reason for her displeasure. Before that, he had seemed to like her very well; he had even, she remembered, questioned her several times as to her marital status—joked with her about her mother's hope for a son-in-law. Could this not be considered a flirtation? And why should he have stopped, if not because he thought his suit was hopeless—and why should he think so, unless Lady Catherine's condemnation of the inequality between Miss Finch's fortune and Colonel Fitzwilliam's had influenced him? And why should he _care_ about such a condemnation, unless his attraction to Anne had been based on her fortune—for surely _she_ had done nothing to anger him, and they were both of age to marry without her mother's consent, though doing so would likely cause Lady Catherine to disinherit her daughter.

Indeed (here Anne's heart began racing), were all of the Harts so kind and gentle as they appeared? Had not Dr. Hart invited Anne to visit his children weekly, under the guise of treatment, although such an arrangement was clearly quite irregular? Certainly he would not have encouraged such an acquaintance, unless he had deeper reasons for doing so. And had not Rosamond herself, on multiple occasions but most notably on their first meeting, pressed Anne for details about the beauty and splendor of Rosings Park? She had been so captivated, so enchanted, by Anne's descriptions of the gardens and the rooms, and she had confessed, after the Dalyrmples' ball, how much she had wished to _belong_ there—

Yet Anne's heart would not stand for this abuse of her beloved friend, and she recalled herself sternly to what she knew to be true. Rosamond certainly had no interest in Anne's fortune, and her father had encouraged their friendship because he thought it a benefit to both of them. In that quarter, at least, there had been no deception. But the matter of Theodore still troubled her; was it possible for a much-loved brother to differ so greatly in character from his fond sister? She could not think it; she wished Miss Cates had never spoken, for then she should never have had any doubt. Theodore, she thought firmly, simply did not love her, and there was no sinister reasoning behind it.

This was not a satisfactory conclusion, and this turn in her thoughts cast her so very low that she was glad to raise her head, blinking in the sunshine as though she had emerged from a dark room, and find herself standing on a winding path that led directly to the garden-gate of Hunsford Parsonage. Anne was so anxious to escape from her dissatisfying reflections, and so missing the companionship which her mornings in Bath's walking-parks had often afforded her, that before she quite knew what she was doing, she had advanced through Mr. Collins' garden and knocked on the garden-door.

The maid's face, when the door was opened, betrayed no little surprise, and Anne momentarily felt quite foolish. At least, she thought, she ought to have gone around to the front, rather than calling at the back-door like some expected neighbor. But then, a neighbor was precisely what she was, and, smiling cheerfully, she asked the girl whether Mrs. Collins was at home.

Mrs. Collins was, and after only a moment Anne was shown into the sunny back parlor (one of the few rooms in the house which Lady Catherine had not improved on Mr. Collins' arrival to Hunsford). The parson's wife sat knitting serenely in an armchair. At Anne's arrival, she rose and curtsied, her smile welcoming if rather puzzled. The two women sat down together, and Mrs. Collins rang for tea.

She had never been a particularly fine-looking woman; Anne had, on their first meeting, dismissed her as entirely plain, even plainer than Anne herself. Indeed, her features were quite insignificant when compared to Rosamond Hart's fair-haired, graceful, almost elfin beauty, or Elizabeth Darcy's poised, fine-eyed, clever handsomeness. Yet Anne found Mrs. Collins now looking very well indeed. Her condition not being advanced more than three or four months, the lady was not yet "showing," but her face and figure had acquired a certain fullness, and she moved with a capable elegance. She looked, above all, very much at peace, and quietly happy; already, Anne thought, very much like a mother.

"I am honored by your visit, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins said, pouring the tea. "When did you and Lady Catherine returned from Bath?"  
"Only last night," Anne replied, taking her teacup gratefully.  
"And did you have a pleasant journey?"

"Very pleasant; I believe I merely daydreamed for much of it," Anne admitted with a smile.

"One encounters such pleasing countryside in this part of England," Mrs. Collins remarked. "I have never been as far as Somerset, but my father has family in Hampshire, and as a girl I always enjoyed travelling to visit them."

"The weather in Bath has been very agreeable," Anne said after a moment. "And it seems you have been enjoying a fine spring here, for the parsonage garden is looking lovely."

"You are very kind, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins answered. "Mr. Collins spends a great deal of time in the garden; he finds the fresh air most wholesome. And I myself have been taking daily walks, for my mother has informed me that such exercise is quite beneficial to one in my condition."

"My mother and I were delighted when Mr. Collins wrote to us with the news. It shall be such a joy, to have children at Hunsford. There have not been any children in the neighborhood since I myself was a girl."

"I imagine our peace shall be greatly disturbed," Mrs. Collins smiled. "But it shall be a happy disturbance.—Lady Catherine was good enough to write us a list of recommended modifications to the cottage, for which you must thank her on my behalf. Mr. Collins has already begun arranging the nursery."

Their conversation continued in this manner for a pleasing half-hour or so, before at last Anne rose to take her leave. "I am glad you came to visit, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins told her, as she walked with her to the door. "You are welcome at the parsonage any time. Do give my regards to Lady Catherine."

Anne promised to do so, and, with a curtsy, stepped again into the sunshine, having truly enjoyed her afternoon.

* * *

She went for a second walk on the following day, but did not go to Hunsford Parsonage, afraid that two visits in a row might make her seem rather desperate for company. Instead, she turned her steps in the opposite direction, and spent a satisfying afternoon roaming the hills beyond the grove. If only there had been a driving rain, and a wild wind to whip the long locks of her hair, she would have looked quite the Romantic heroine; but the day was fair, and disturbed only by a gentle breeze. Anne did not mind. At one point, certain of her solitude, she was bold enough to lie down on the soft grass and watch the clouds like a child—an act for which her mother or Mrs. Jenkinson would surely have rebuked her. (She rose again before very long, feeling rather foolish, but somehow exhilarated.)

On the third evening, the Collinses were invited to spend the evening at Rosings Park for supper and cards. They were ushered into the drawing room as usual, Mr. Collins taking his customary place at Lady Catherine's side, and Mrs. Collins on the settee next to Anne. Lady Catherine dominated the conversation, as was her wont: she told the Collinses whom she had seen in Bath, how many parties and assemblies and concerts and balls they had attended, which shops were the best and, to Anne's mortification, which gentlemen had been excessively charmed by Miss de Bourgh (some of the names she mentioned were names Anne had never heard, but she supposed allowances must be made for her mother's disappointments in that quarter, for which she was likely compensating). Her account of their months in Bath being more or less completed, Lady Catherine went on to question Mr. Collins on the small news items which he had mentioned to her in his letters. The gentleman was only too glad to provide her with further details whenever he could, and to accept the advice which she gave him so readily.

It was while Lady Catherine and her faithful beneficiary were so engaged that Mrs. Collins, leaning ever so slightly towards Anne, said softly, "I must thank you again, Miss de Bourgh, for the pleasure of your visit on Saturday."

"I must thank you, for being so welcoming," Anne replied carefully, rather surprised. Mrs. Collins smiled.

"I have had few visitors since my arrival at Hunsford. I correspond with friends and family, of course, and occasionally I am honored with a guest; but I had forgotten, living so far from the neighborhood in which I was raised, what a joy it is to simply take tea with one's neighbors."

Anne turned, and met the lady's eyes, and in that moment, behind the motherly grace and simple tranquility, she saw quite plainly that Mrs. Collins was lonely. The realization caught her by surprise, for, after all, Mrs. Collins was a married woman, expecting a child; but she was struck, quite suddenly, by the thought that Mr. Collins was likely too concerned with his parsonage and with his patroness to act as a true companion for his wife.

"I should very much like to take tea with you again, Mrs. Collins," she said honestly.

"I am glad to hear it," Mrs. Collins replied. "And, Miss de Bourgh—" She hesitated. "Perhaps I should tell you that Mr. Collins is unaware of your visit, and shall remain so, unless you wish it otherwise. He would be very flattered, of course; but, as you may have noticed, he has something of a tendency to—dramatize. I would not wish to make you uncomfortable."

"You are very thoughtful," Anne said, smiling.

"What are you and Mrs. Collins talking of, Anne?" Lady Catherine demanded at that moment. "I detest being left out of a conversation."

"I was telling Mrs. Collins about the Dalyrmples' ball," Anne answered glibly, after a brief panicked moment.

"Ah! Yes, what an agreeable evening," Lady Catherine exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Collins. "I have very little patience for balls, you know, Mrs. Collins, for I find the heat and the crowds most oppressive; but Lady Dalyrmple, who is such a very particular friend of mine, had spared no expense on the decorations—their lodgings, of course, are in Sydney Place, and _very_ fashionable—and the evening was really very pleasant after all, in spite of the great crowds. Anne danced twice with Colonel Fitzwilliam." She looked, for a moment, as though she were about to make some hint at this juncture; but then she apparently recalled Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement, which was not to Anne de Bourgh, and broke off abruptly. "At any rate, Lady Dalyrmple was glad to have me there, for she knows how I loathe a ball."

Mrs. Collins made some polite remark, but was immediately drowned out by her husband, who exclaimed over the loyalty, the friendship, and the condescension shown by Lady Catherine, in attending a ball when she did not want to. Anne met Mrs. Collins' eyes once, and they both hid their smiles in their fans.

Life at Rosings, then, began once again to take on a familiar shape. Anne filled the fair days with walks, and the wet ones with books; she soon began sending away to London book-shops, in order to supplement the personal library she had begun in Bath. She called on Mrs. Collins quite regularly, most often when Mr. Collins was away visiting his parishioners, for the great honor and terror of Miss de Bourgh's company _in his own home _would likely have sent him into some form of shock. When she had grown tired of Rosings and its environs, Anne drove her phaeton into the village, and spent her afternoon perusing the shops. The Hunsford high-street was hardly Milsom Street or Union Street, but she was able to amuse herself tolerably well, examining the ribbon and cloth and bonnets on display; every so often, she would purchase some little trinket for the parsonage nursery, for which Mrs. Collins was always exceedingly grateful. It was a peaceful existence, far less diverse and demanding than life in Bath had been. There were no assemblies, no balls, only quiet evening card-parties with the Collinses, and every so often a performance upon the pianforte by Mrs. Collins or Mrs. Jenkinson.

Removed from the liveliness of town, Anne felt her longing for Bath begin to dissipate somewhat, and felt increasingly at home in Rosings Park. She began to think that she could live quite agreeably in Kent, even as an old maid (let Lady Catherine say what she would about the London season, Anne had no intention of marrying any gentleman she did not love, no matter how handsome his face or his fortune). Indeed, it began to seem as though her life in Bath had been the dream, rather than her life at Rosings; she could not imagine how she had danced until one or even two in the morning, or how she had dined with six different families over the course of a single week. Bath was far away from her now, and her attachment to it lessened each day. Rosings Park was hardly engaging, and she could not say that she was truly _happy_ here, but it was comfortable, and she did not mind the boredom.

This, then, was her frame of mind when she awoke one morning, which seemed no different to any other mornings; the sky was blue, though hazy, and the air was warm. Anne rose, dressed, breakfasted, and went out into the garden. She was taking the same path she had made on the morning of Mr. Darcy's wedding, four months ago, when she suddenly realized that it had been exactly a fortnight since she last stood in the sitting-room at Hart House; exactly a fortnight, to be more precise, since Miss Cates had estimated her engagement to Mr. Hart to be only a fortnight away.

Anne felt as though she had been struck; her stomach seemed to drop to her feet, and she sat down heavily on the bench nearby. She attempted to console herself: _Miss Cates was boasting, not making a scientific calculation. Even if she is correct—even if he is at this moment proposing to her—it is hardly a surprise, for you knew he would marry her anyway. They are meant for one another; they are a fine match. Rose loves Adele Cates, and will be glad to call her sister._ But she could not stop the tears from escaping, though she pressed her hands over her eyes, and she hurried back into the house, so as not to cause suspicion among the gardeners.

A morning spent weeping in her bedroom proved to be all Anne could muster.

She did rouse herself in the afternoon, and took the path to Hunsford Parsonage, hoping that a change of scenery, and some company, would lift her spirits. Yet she was disappointed, for Mrs. Collins, upon perceiving her, exclaimed, "Why, Miss de Bourgh, whatever is the matter?"

Anne caught sight of herself in the looking glass. Her eyes were red, though she had splashed water on her face, and her complexion was very pale. She looked, she thought, like her old self: frail, anxious, and infirm. The thought was quite infuriating to her, and she brushed at her eyes impatiently.

"It is nothing," she told Mrs. Collins, "only I remembered something I had forgot. I am quite well."

"You look quite upset. Do sit down, Miss de Bourgh."

Anne did so, though, "I really am perfectly well," she insisted.

Mrs. Collins poured her a cup of tea, and she took it gratefully. They sat in silence for a moment, Anne taking one or two deep breaths.

"Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins began at length, sipping her own tea, "I understand if you should not wish to confide in me; I do not expect to be taken into your deepest confidence. Yet I should hate to think of you suffering, if there were some way in which I could help."

Anne stared at her. "You cannot help," she said finally, and then, in a rush, the entire account of Mr. Hart, of Miss Cates, of Rosamond, of dear Hart House, began pouring out of her. She felt quite powerless to stop herself; she could only speak, watching Mrs. Collins' kind, calm face, which remained more or less unchanged throughout her story.

"I did not really expect to marry him," she finished at last. "I believe I have read too many novels, in which the heroine forever marries her hero, despite the odds of their meeting again; but of course it was unrealistic to expect him to—to chase me to Kent, or perhaps to wait for me to return one day, or to seek me out in London during the Season, or some such silly thing."

"It was, indeed, rather unrealistic," Mrs. Collins answered placidly. Anne, who had not expected this response, met her eyes with a start.

"I should not advise you to pine for your hero, Miss de Bourgh," the lady went on, gently. "Heroes are rare in this world; one meets only with gentlemen who deserve the word, and gentlemen who do not. I am not one of those women who believes in true love, or destiny, or even fate. They are lofty concepts, better left to novels and poetry than to the tangible, breathing world. I did not marry Mr. Collins because he rescued me from a dragon, or pursued me across an ocean; I married him because he is a good man, with steady prospects, who cares for me and treats me well. In return, I can give him a cheerful home, a healthy family, and, when he desires it, someone to listen to him." She smiled.

Anne sat back in her chair, rather disappointed with Mrs. Collins' practical view of the world.

"One cannot live, Miss de Bourgh, upon what _ought_ to happen; there is only what _does_ happen. Sometimes, one _does_ marry the person one's heart prefers; other times, one _does_ marry the person who makes one comfortable."

"I do not wish to be comfortable," Anne complained. "I am comfortable here at Rosings; I wish to be happy."

"Then be happy," Mrs. Collins said simply. "Do not think of what you are missing, but take pleasure in what you have. You have the friendship of Miss Hart, and of your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, which seem very precious to you. You have fond memories of balls, and dances, and dinner-parties. You have books to read, and gardens to walk in. You may not have Mr. Hart for a husband, but that is only one thing you are lacking, compared to a great many things you have."

Her advice reminded Anne very much of some advice which Dr. Hart had given her, shortly after Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement to Miss Finch, and she took another sip of her tea, considering. Her nerves had calmed somewhat by this time, and she was able to give Mrs. Collins a nod, and a smile, and turn the subject onto other, more innocuous matters.

* * *

Another week passed, and Anne, though still unable to think of Theodore without pain (she was certain he must be engaged by now, if not married already), had done her best to follow Mrs. Collins' advice. She read, she walked, she visited the parsonage and the village, she wrote letters to Georgiana Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam; she even took up her embroidery again, and though she had never learned to draw, she began making rough little sketches of the woods and fields she walked over, for they were hastening ever on towards summer, and it seemed quite a shame not to preserve the beauty of the season.

The passage of time, growing more and more apparent as the flowers bloomed larger and the days grew warmer, reminded Anne that she still had had no letter from Rosamond Hart. She had only half-expected to receive one during the first week of her return to Rosings; she had been waiting patiently all throughout the second; but by the third, she was grown quite eager for news from her friend. How long did the post take from Bath? She accounted for poor weather, for bad roads, for misdirection.

As her fourth week at Rosings began, Anne grew rather irritated with her friend—for she had promised so faithfully that she would write, and Anne had seen personally the amount of letters that passed between Rosamond and her sister on the Continent. If Rosamond could write a letter to Helena every week or so, she thought crossly, then surely a month was ample time for her to compose some small note for Anne. Perhaps Rosamond was unwell, or called away from home somewhere; but in that case, certainly Robert or Juliet would have written in her stead, informing Anne of the circumstances. She wondered if she ought not write first; but Anne's pride, though thankfully less haughty than it had once been, would not allow her to do so, when Rosamond had assured her (three times she had said it) that _she_ would write.

(Had Miss Cates—perhaps Mrs. Hart, by this time—said some thing to Rosamond, to prejudice her against Anne? Had Theodore? Had Rosamond's tears, her embraces, been a pretense? Was she angry with Anne, for some unknown insult? Was she ill—were they all ill? Had some body died?)

Aside from her frustration, however, Anne passed her days pleasantly enough. She had received a letter from Colonel Fitzwilliam, which included a description of his wedding to Miss Finch—regrettably short, without many details; but then, Anne thought, laughing, such was typical of a military man—and informed her that he and Mrs. Fitzwilliam (Anne could imagine very well the smile that had graced his features, upon writing those words) would be staying near Pemberley in the autumn, if Anne still hoped to visit there at Michaelmas.

Georgiana had also written, reiterating the same invitation, and adding that Mrs. Darcy's mother and two younger sisters were to visit at the same time. Anne was pleased to find that Georgiana was not so timid in her letters as she was in her speech; or perhaps she had grown less shy altogether, since being in Bath. "Elizabeth asks me to beg you very earnestly to make one of the party," young Miss Darcy wrote, "so that she and I shall not be the only ladies of good sense at Pemberley for the entire season. (I am quite certain that she means this as a joke, cousin, so you must not be offended on behalf of the Bennets. Mr. Bingley assures me that they are all very agreeable girls, though my brother will not say much on the matter.)"

Anne had not yet attempted the subject with her mother; yet she was reasonably certain of a favorable conclusion, if only because she was determined to make the journey whether or not she had Lady Catherine's permission. Indeed, though her Ladyship continued to exert absolute control over their evening visits from the Collinses, she had not given Anne any orders or instructions in some time. As far as she was concerned, she had only to ensure that Anne went to London in the winter, and married some suitable gentleman; until then, her daughter was quite free. At Rosings Park, Miss de Bourgh had no need of her mother's careful direction or guidance—for who was watching? Even Anne's frequent visits to the parsonage had gone largely unremarked upon; for Lady Catherine, beginning a conversation on the matter one morning, had been halted by Anne's insistence that visits between the manor and the parsonage could only be seen as further evidence of Lady Catherine's great condescension.

"And anyway, mother," Anne had continued, to Lady Catherine's surprise, "Mrs. Collins is no physician's daughter; her father is a knight, and is well-known at St. James's Court."

Lady Catherine could offer no real argument to this, and allowed the subject to drop.

And so spring lengthened into summer, and Anne lived on. She could not yet say that she was happy; but that happiness seemed more attainable to her, was certainly true. She missed Rosamond, sometimes quite bitterly; she was now and then overwhelmed by the great quiet around her; and on very dark nights, when she could not sleep, she was occasionally plunged into a deep despair at the thought that she should never see Theodore again—that the title of Mrs. Hart, the only one she should have cared for, was already lost to her. But she had books, she had gardens, she had tea and cakes, she had the parsonage and the village, she had autumn at Pemberley and winter in town. Regardless of what she could not have, Anne thought, she was really, overall, exceedingly fortunate.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** It's my last night in London! I have had a fantastic semester and am definitely going to miss it—the place and the people—but it will be lovely to be home. I'm nannying for my little nephew this summer, which will be a ton of fun, and I can't wait to see the ol' family. I hope all of you have thrilling, or at least moderately diverting, summer plans to look forward to! I believe this will be the penultimate chapter of this little story, unless something goes horribly wrong, so while this is not yet our swan song, I'd still like to thank everyone so much for reading, reviewing, and hopefully enjoying. Writing this story has been an absolute pleasure, and at times an incredibly effective stress-reliever/source of comfort. _Miss de Bourgh in Bath_ began as an odd little idea in the back of my mind, which I carried around with me for several months before I ever wrote anything down, and I'm so glad that this odd little idea has managed to entertain at least a few people out in the wide world. Thank you again for all of your wonderful words of encouragement!

* * *

Summer in the "garden of England" was not to be missed for all the world, however delightful Bath had been in the spring. Flowers bloomed large and fragrant; the hills and trees rippled green in the warm wind; the sun lent every thing a butter-gold tint; the storms echoed satisfyingly with crashes of thunder and shimmers of lightning. It had always been Anne's favorite season, not least because it was the only season in which Lady Catherine could not insist that it was too cold, or too inclement, for her daughter to spend much time out of doors. In the past, Anne had limited her enjoyment to turns in the gardens, but now, unrestricted, she took long walks and long drives, calling at Hunsford Parsonage and wandering the village.

Anne was content. She could not yet think of Theodore without a sudden cold sinking of the heart, and so she did her best not to think of him at all; she occupied her time, and her mind, with other matters. An agreeable correspondence had emerged between herself and Georgiana Darcy, which she much enjoyed; similarly, the Fitzwilliams wrote to her not infrequently, providing her with bits of news from Bath. In return, she sent them little drawings (not masterfully done, to be sure, but pleasant enough) of Rosings in its finest season, along with greetings from Mrs. Collins and good-humored anecdotes of Mr. Collins, of which at first she was uncertain, until her cousin assured her that he, being acquainted with the clergyman, found them very amusing indeed.

However, it had been two months, and Rosamond had not yet written.

Anne's confusion over the matter had sunk into anger, for there could indeed be no excuse for such negligence. She began to question every thing she knew of her friend; whether all of her smiles, all of her kindness, had not been some clever charade. Yet this line of thought inevitably reminded led to the same cold sinking of her heart which accompanied her thoughts of Theodore, and she resolved not to think of any of the Hart family if she could help it. (She could not often help it.)

In preparation for the winter Season, Lady Catherine had begun corresponding with various friends of hers who were well-connected in London. Her aim was to gain as complete as possible an understanding of the scene that would await them when they arrived in February, and she had taken to reading Anne bits and pieces of the letters she received, particularly those that concerned the eligible gentlemen of her friends' acquaintance. To Anne, it often sounded as though her mother were assembling a catalogue, of sorts—as though finding a husband were as easy as choosing a new bonnet or a set of cutlery. She complained about this to Mrs. Collins, who responded with quiet amusement.

"You are fortunate to have so much choice in this matter, Miss de Bourgh," the clergyman's wife told her pleasantly, her eyes on the knitting in her lap. "There are not many women with as many gentlemen to choose from."

"But it is not I who will do the choosing," Anne protested. "It is my mother; all I can do is hope that no gentleman likes me well enough to propose."

"You may yet be surprised, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins replied, looking up at her. "You may one day receive a proposal which pleases you very much indeed."

"That is not likely," Anne said, rather irritably. "There are a great many gentleman whom I find agreeable, but I doubt I shall find any whom I could tolerate day after day."

Mrs. Collins gave a small, secretive smile, and returned her eyes to her work.

Though she of course had not said any thing of the matter to Lady Catherine, the truth was that Anne had rather resigned herself to the life of an old maid. In spite of his faults and her doubts about him, Anne was quite certain that Theodore was the only gentleman in the world who could make her truly happy; and if she was not to be his wife, she was resolved not to be any body's. After all, she reasoned, she had more than enough money to support herself upon her dowry alone, and would be quite wealthy indeed once she came into her inheritance. She had her own home at Rosings Park, and had already begun to claim a place for herself there. She would have liked to be a mother—but she had, or would soon have, nieces and nephews to dote upon, and was that not more convenient? There were a great many advantages, she decided, to being an old maid, and though she had always thought she would marry eventually—well, some things simply were not meant to be. As Mrs. Collins had said, she was fortunate to have so much choice in the matter; how horrid it would be, if she were forced to marry out of necessity!

(Yet she had begun dreaming of houses: large houses, small houses, sometimes in Bath and sometimes in Kent and sometimes in London—night after night, she dreamt of houses. They were always different, yet always filled with the same voices, the same music. In her dreams, she felt Theodore's arm entwined with her own, felt his ring upon her finger, felt her head against his shoulder. Sometimes, there were children; sometimes, they were alone; sometimes, Theodore's brother and sisters sat with them, always laughing. These, she reminded herself, were silly dreams, and she refused to interpret them.)

And Rosamond still had not written.

Another month passed, in which nothing changed. Despite all her resignations and resolutions, despite the books and walks and visits and drawings with which she filled her time, Anne could not help beginning to feel the faintest stirrings of boredom. It was people that were missing, she realized: aside from Mrs. Collins, there was no body in Kent with whom she could converse. Though the solitude was peaceful, it did, after a time, begin to wear upon one.

And so she set her thoughts ahead to Pemberley in the fall, where she would be surrounded by all (almost all) of her friends; and then she set her thoughts to London in the winter, which might be a rather more trying ordeal, given Lady Catherine's determination to marry her off—but she would be meeting people, and going places, and at least, she thought wryly, her mother's efforts to find her a husband, and her own efforts to thwart her, would offer plenty of variety.

* * *

It had been three months since she had returned to Rosings, and Anne awoke one morning to find the skies gray and the wind rising, though the rain had not yet begun. She attempted to amuse herself indoors for the day; but there was something very romantic, she thought, about the calm before the storm, and at last, having spent much of the morning gazing idly out the window, she donned her shawl and ventured out into the world.

She had never felt more like a heroine as she emerged from the house, the wind whipping at her dress. She imagined herself out on the wild moors, though in fact she was walking the well-kept garden paths, and was scarcely a hundred yards from the house. The air was thick with the promise of a storm, and she rather enjoyed the warm humidity encircling her, and the distant flickers of lightning that were, as yet, unaccompanied by any stronger sentiments.

Unfortunately, after only a quarter of an hour, the darkening gray skies made good on their threat, and a cold, steady rain began; Anne, sheltered only by a thin shawl and bonnet, was obliged to hurry indoors again. The fastest route was to cut across the kitchen garden, which brought Anne around to the side of the house. The rain fell thicker and faster and she nearly ran up the path, skipping around quickly-forming puddles. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, and Anne burst through the kitchen-door only moments before the first real flash of lightning.

She pulled her bonnet off her head. Her shawl, too, was soaked through, and she hung it on one of the hooks near the door to dry. It was quiet; the kitchen servants were generally allowed an hour or so to themselves between clearing the dishes from breakfast, and beginning preparations for tea, and most of them spent it in their own quarters. Alone, then, Anne allowed herself a brief laugh, for her race through the rain had rather exhilarated her, and pulled the pins from her damp hair (the light summer bonnet had done very little to protect it), allowing it to fall down over her shoulders so that it might dry faster. She gave her head a little shake, and ran her fingers through her hair once (how intolerably messy curls could be in wet weather!), as she made her way out of the still kitchen.

The fastest way to her room was through the serving-pantry and the dining room and up the grand stairs in the entrance hall. She hurried through the large, empty rooms, darkened by the gray skies outside, wishing very much for a warm fire and a set of dry clothes. Her haste rather distracted her, and it was for this reason that she paid no attention to the voices in the entrance hall until she had already entered it, and caught the attention of the parties within.

"—understand that Lady Catherine is not at home; it is Miss de Bourgh whom I have come to see," Theodore Hart was saying, in a tone of distinct annoyance.

"I have been informed, sir, that neither of the ladies are at home," the footman returned, looking equally irritated. "Perhaps you would care to leave a card."

Theodore opened his mouth to answer, but it was at this moment that Anne stepped into the hall, and his eyes fell on her.

Her eyes fell on him in the same moment, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her heart leaping into her throat. _My God!_ she thought, desperately, quite unable to speak. That he should be here—_here_—she was quite uncertain, for a moment, whether he was even real; yet he turned towards her, his features showing almost as much surprise and apprehension as her own.

"Excuse me, Miss de Bourgh," the footman said, sounding quite disgruntled. "This gentleman was asking for you; I have explained to him that you are not receiving visitors."

"Forgive me," Theodore said, still staring at her. "Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude."

Anne could say nothing, could not take her eyes from him. She suddenly thought, uncontrollably, how she must look: her hair loose and wet, her shoes and dress muddied, her face flushed from her exercise. What a fright she must appear to him—quite a wild thing!

"I believe you should leave, sir," the servant said sharply, breaking the silence. Theodore glanced at him, then returned his gaze to Anne. The footman moved forward, as if threatening to remove him; Theodore glanced at him again, shook his head as if waking from a dream, and, with a little bow, turned towards the door.

"No," Anne broke out, surprising even herself. She took a few steps towards Theodore, then stopped, feeling as though she might faint. How often she had dreamed of this moment, considered what she ought to say to him, and now her words and her nerve failed her. "No, please don't go. You must have come such a long way—"

"Only from London," Theodore murmured.

"Allow me a moment," Anne continued, her face hot, "and I will see you. I only need to put on something warmer.—Show Mr. Hart into the library," she said to the footman, doing her best to sound imperious. It seemed to her that the library was the place least likely to contain Lady Catherine, who traditionally spent her afternoons in her private sitting-room upstairs, or in the east parlor. The servant, giving Mr. Hart a distasteful glance, bowed to Miss de Bourgh. Anne offered a meager curtsy to Theodore, and fled up the stairs with all the haste that her dignity would allow, her face burning. It was not until she had taken several steps that her mind registered the sight of the single gold band which had adorned Theodore's fourth finger.

* * *

Anne dressed slowly, her mind spinning. She was too shocked, too nervous, to think. The only question which troubled her now was the obvious one—_why was he here?_ A million possibilities occurred to her, too many for her to consider seriously a single one. What was she to say to him? How were they to speak to one another? She had not been alone with Theodore for nearly a month before her departure from Bath; and that had been three months ago. He had occupied her thoughts since then—she had imagined herself confessing her love to him, had imagined him doing the same to her; she had imagined herself rebuking him for the coldness of his manner, and his confession that he had only been rendered shy by his great adoration of her. But these were nothing more than the silly ramblings of an idle and romantic mind, which had been fed on too many novels for far too long. Faced now with the tangible and breathing (and, it seemed, married) subject of her musings, she was lost.

She lingered as long as she could, her heart beating fast. As much as she wished to see him again, to hear him speak, she also dreaded the interview. Perhaps she could send her maid down with a message that she had been taken ill very suddenly, or perhaps she could merely climb out of her window and down the wall and run as fast as she could to the comforting warmth of the parsonage, where he surely would never follow her. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks.

At length, however, she had donned a dry frock and pinned her hair into place, had splashed her face with cool water and paced anxiously to and fro for at least five minutes, and there was no other occupation with which she could reasonably absent herself from her visitor. Clenching her sweating hands and feeling rather nauseous, Anne cautiously emerged from her room and descended the stairs.

Theodore, it seemed, was scarcely less anxious than herself, for she caught him pacing before the fireplace as she entered the library. He turned, startled, at the sound of the door opening, and pulled himself to an abrupt halt, regarding her with wide eyes. She curtsied; he bowed; and they stared at one another.

"You must forgive me, Miss de Bourgh, for my calling on you without prior notice; it is most irregular, and most impolite of me," he began, after several moments of tense silence.

"Not at all," Anne managed. "Will you not sit?"

They both took chairs on opposite sides of the fire. Anne smoothed her hands over her knees, now quite unable to look at him, for she had caught the flash of his ring in the firelight.

"You said you had been in London, Mr. Hart," Anne attempted, after another long pause.

"Yes—for my exam. I have been admitted to the bar," he replied, giving a small smile, which quickly faded. "I may now call myself a qualified barrister."

"My congratulations, sir," Anne said quietly.

"Thank you."

There was another silence, which irritated Anne. Why had he come, if he did not mean to speak?

"Miss de Bourgh," Theodore said at last, "you must know that I have come here as an agent of my sister.—Rose has missed you dreadfully since you left Bath, and asked me to make my way to Kent, if I could, after my examination, to see that you were well, and give you her regards."

At this, Anne's temper flared. "If Miss Hart has missed me," she replied shortly, "then surely she might have written me herself, rather than selfishly placing such a burden on her brother. Under the circumstances, I cannot give much credit to her _regards_."

"I beg you would not speak so of my sister, Miss de Bourgh, for it makes me like you less." Mr. Hart's eyes narrowed.

"I speak as I find. It could not have been convenient for you to come here; and it is exceedingly ill-bred of Miss Hart to promise that she will do some thing, and then fail to do it."

"Now that I have been privileged to see the famous Rosings Park, Miss de Bourgh, I suppose I must allow you the authority to comment on my sister's _breeding_," Mr. Hart returned heatedly. "Clearly it is unequal to your own; and I have heard that it is the prerogative of the rich to accuse others of their own crimes."

"I do not take your meaning, sir."

"Then I shall make it very plain.—Rosamond has written you faithfully, at least once every fortnight, and you have never once responded, though you swore to her that you would. I suppose that is good breeding!"

Anne, struck quite dumb, could make no reply.

"Your silence has concerned her greatly; she was for a time even convinced that you lay fatally ill, until Mrs. Fitzwilliam mentioned that your cousin had received several kind letters from you since your departure. She now worries that she has somehow offended you, and begs me to make whatever apologies are necessary on her behalf."

"I never received her letters," Anne said faintly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I never received them—not a single one. You say she has written often?"

"At least once every fortnight, and once or twice again when some thing has occurred which she thought might amuse you." Theodore's features softened slightly. "And none of them have reached you? The stupid child, she must have written the wrong direction!"

This seemed, to Anne, very unlikely, and indeed another possibility was then occurring to her, which she did not mention to Theodore. "And I have been so angry with her," she said instead, in a rather wondering tone of voice.

"I am sure you both will find this very amusing one day, Miss de Bourgh," Theodore answered, smiling, and looking rather like his own droll self. "It is very Shakespearean—a true comedy of errors. Lord, how I shall tease her!"

Anne shook her head to clear it, and met his eyes again. "You must give her my apologies, then, sir, and my affection, and tell her—" She hesitated. "Tell her to address her letters to Hunsford Parsonage, henceforth; I shall write the direction for you before you go. I imagine there is less chance of their getting lost there," she muttered.

Theodore looked somewhat confused, but agreed to do as Anne instructed; and they fell into silence again, though it was rather less tense than it had been before. The fire crackled softly, and the rain dripped onto the roof and the windows. Theodore ran a hand through his hair (it had grown since Anne had seen him last; yet it suited him), and the motion caused his ring to catch the light again. Anne looked away, casting her eyes intently on the bookshelves that stood on either side of the fireplace, as though fascinated by them.

"I wonder if you will remember, Miss Anne, a conversation which we were having once, in which we were interrupted," Theodore began at last, quietly. "It was during one of your last visits to Hart House; I had asked you—" He hesitated again. "I had asked you what I had done to offend you, or perhaps hurt you, for I had noticed that your manner towards me had changed considerably, and for some time prior you had seemed rather—irked by my presence."

Anne's stomach sank. She had been glad of the interruption then, and should be glad of one now, but there were no footsteps in the passage and she could think of no reason to flee the room. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding so loudly that she wondered Mr. Hart could not hear it.

"You assured me, Miss de Bourgh, that I had done nothing wrong, but then you said: '_Only_—'. My father came in just then, and you took your leave, but I wonder—do you remember how you should have finished that sentence? _Only_ what—what had I only done?"

"I do not remember, Mr. Hart," Anne said uncertainly.

"But I think you must, Miss de Bourgh, for when you said good-bye to us all at Hart House, you were yet quite cold with me; indeed, you seemed almost angry. Surely there was some reason for your resentment?"

"I cannot remember. I was very tired, and did not wish to leave Bath, and perhaps these circumstances made me rather irritable."

"You were not too irritable to embrace my sisters, or even to clasp my brother's hand. I was the only one who was brushed away, and I beg to know the reason."

"I do not know!" Anne snapped, surprising even herself. Theodore leaned forward in his chair.

"Please, Miss de Bourgh, if I have insulted you in any way, or caused you any pain, I would be made aware of it, so I can offer my sincerest apologies."

"You must not press me, sir—"

"Indeed I must press you, Anne, for you are keeping something from me!"

"Why do you care?" Anne cried, leaping to her feet. Theodore stood as well, his tall frame seeming to fill the room. "Why are you so concerned, Mr. Hart, with my feelings—you who shall never see me again! We have an acquaintance of three months, no more; do you pester every body you meet in this manner? When you perceive any lack of warmth in some person's manner towards you, do you pursue them to their home, demanding to know the reason? Tenacity is an admirable quality, sir, but obstinacy is not!"

"You should speak of obstinacy!" Mr. Hart declared scornfully. "You are not _some person_, Anne, you are—"

"What am I?"

"You are—" He seemed to deflate somewhat, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "You are Rosamond's dearest friend, and I should not like our own relations to be strained."

Anne leaned against the mantelpiece, rather disappointed in spite of herself. Silence reigned for a full minute; Mr. Hart clasped and unclasped his hands, shifted, took a step forward and then back again. He looked rather as if he were performing some dance; if she had not been so frustrated, Anne might have been amused. Several times, Mr. Hart opened his mouth as if to speak, though what he had to say, Anne could not imagine. His ring gleamed. She turned her head to examine the figures on the mantelpiece: a bust of some revered philosopher, two small porcelain statues of shepherd and shepherdess, a large gilded clock. She wondered if Mr. Hart and Miss Cates were happy together; she wondered if they lived at Hart House, or if they had moved to their own household. She glanced back at Mr. Hart. He was looking around the room, as though looking for some thing, and at last he met her eyes and said:

"That is not true."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"You are not Rosamond's dearest friend—or, you are, but that is not what you _are_; not to me." He paused, took a breath. "Forgive me, Miss de Bourgh, if I confuse you, for words are failing me just now."

Anne made no reply, though she was indeed rather confused.

"Your feelings are important to me, Miss de Bourgh, because I—admire you." He took another breath, and watched her carefully. "I admire you, and I respect you, for I find you to be a woman of honest intelligence, who is desirous of learning, and of doing right, and of correcting her mistakes, whenever possible. I know you to have a truly independent mind, and I know you to be deeply compassionate, and loyal to those who deserve your loyalty. There is no gentleman who could fail to be moved by the distress of such a creature, particularly when he himself must have been the cause. This, then, is why I am so concerned, and this is why I must ask you, again, to tell me how I have hurt you, and how I can make amends."

The plea had rather taken Anne's breath away, and the blush rose on her cheeks. She had never heard herself so described—at least not with such sincerity—and she felt herself melting. This, then, laid all her fears and doubts to rest; she could not question him now; the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, would brook no argument. _It is no wonder he has become a lawyer_, she thought, rather wryly, _for indeed he speaks very well._

Yet how could she respond? To tell him that she loved him was no longer merely a problem of humiliation; it had also been rendered highly inappropriate, and even unfair to him, by the fact of his marriage. Such a confession would surely signal the end of their friendship.

But she could not lie to him.

"Anne," he said. "Please."

His voice was heartbreaking.

She lifted her eyes to him, gazing at him through a watery curtain of tears, and whispered, "Can you not see?"

He stood stock-still, watching her, and for a moment his face did not change; but then, to her surprise, a wide smile broke upon his features, and he moved forward. Shocked, she took a step back.

"You mustn't," she exclaimed. "It would be cruel of you."

"How could it be cruel?" His voice was soft.

"Are you so blind? You are married, and I have no intention of causing pain to any body else, no matter my—my feelings for you. I have too much love and respect for your family, to insult them in this manner."

Theodore was staring at her, a peculiar mix of emotions flitting across his face, annoyance and confusion among them. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but could not find words, and when at last he did open his mouth, the only thing he said was, "Married?" And then again, more incredulously, "_Married_?"

"I am no fool," Anne snapped, her emotions strained nearly to the breaking point. "I expected it before I ever left Bath, and Miss Cates confirmed my suspicions, and the ring on your finger—"

Theodore raised his hands. "You are a fool indeed," he interrupted, affectionately, "my dearest Anne, if you cannot tell the difference between a gentleman's left hand, and his right." He held out his right hand, and she took it, hesitantly. There sat the gold ring, on his fourth finger, shining in the firelight.

Anne suddenly felt overwhelmingly, exceedingly stupid.

"It was a gift from my father," Theodore was explaining, "on the event of my examination. He received it when he took his medical degree, and gave it to me in hopes that it might bring me the same success. Which it has," he added, smiling.

"As to Miss Cates," he removed his hand again, and his face darkened somewhat. "I do not deny that I was—attracted—to that lady, for some little while; but that I ever had any intention of marrying her, I must certainly claim as false, whatever she may have said to you or whatever you may have believed. Indeed, I am sorry for the deception, which has clearly been the cause of much wasted time between us. Miss Cates and I should not have been happy together, for our characters are—ill suited." He looked for a moment as if he wished to say more, but thought better of it.

"And furthermore, Anne," he went on, teasingly, "you recoiled from me just now, as if you thought I meant to commit some grave impropriety, when indeed, I meant to do nothing more than kneel on the floor before you," (he did so), "and take your hand," (he did this as well), "and say some thing very romantic and tender, which I shall now attempt, though I have no talent for it."

"I think I shall faint," Anne said weakly.

"Sit down, then, my dear; I won't be offended."

Anne sank into the chair behind her, though she was careful, in doing so, not to remove her hand from Theodore's.

"Miss Anne de Bourgh," he began, "I have, for some time, considered you to be one of the most admirable women of my acquaintance."

"Oh God," breathed Anne, her heart pounding.

"Do be silent for a moment," Theodore scolded, though his eyes were laughing. "I have already described the qualities which have attracted me to you, and to my earlier remarks I can only add that while your habit of concealing your emotions until the last possible moment is indeed rather infuriating to me, I must confess that it is a fault that we share. For if I had told you four months ago that I loved you, a great deal of pain and confusion should have been avoided."

Anne was rather surprised, and gratified, to hear him say four months, for indeed she had only loved him for three-and-a-half, or so. But she did not dare interrupt.

"Yet I cannot regret the mistakes and misjudgments which we have both made, for they have revealed to me, in a manner not to be mistaken, how greatly my life has been improved by your arrival in it, and how desperately I should feel your absence if ever you should go. I am determined not to feel that absence again, for I do love you, Anne, as I could never love anyone else. Anne—dearest Anne—you know where all of this has been tending, and so you will not be surprised when I ask: will you marry me?"

* * *

Lady Catherine was exceedingly surprised when the door of her private sitting-room was flung open, and her daughter strode into the room, her head held high.

"What is the meaning of—" Lady Catherine began.

"Where are they?" Anne demanded.

"I beg your pardon?" her mother replied stiffly.

"My letters, your Ladyship. Where are they?" Anne moved to the bookshelf and began pulling books out of their places.

"Are you ill?" Lady Catherine said crossly. "Are you feverish, Anne? For that is the only explanation which I can think of for your behavior."

"You are at a disadvantage, then, Lady Catherine, for I can think of a great many explanations for your behavior, and very few of them are at all charitable," Anne said, turning to her mother. "You need not look so surprised; of course I should have realized it before long. Are they under your bed, or hidden in your dressing-room? Have you burned them?"

Lady Catherine held her daughter's gaze for a long moment. Anne did not appear angry; merely resolved, and honestly curious. Indeed she had expected Anne to find out before long, and this was not the reaction she had been anticipating. Perhaps, she thought, Anne's fondness for the doctor's son had faded more quickly even than she had hoped; perhaps she sought the letters now so that she might burn them herself. Buoyed by this little optimism, Lady Catherine at last answered:

"They are in Mrs. Jenkinson's room."

"Thank you." Anne nodded once, and moved to the door again. Stopping just short of exit, she again turned back to her mother.

"By the way, your Ladyship, I am going to be married—to Theodore Hart, the barrister. I told you before that I thought there was very little chance of his asking me; but he has, and I have accepted, as I told you I should. I am sorry for your sake that he is not Mr. Darcy, or Colonel Fitzwilliam, but for my own sake, I am glad. I know without a doubt that we shall be most marvelously happy together."

She smiled. In that moment, with her eyes glittering and her back straight, a look of pure determination gracing her features, she looked more like Lady Catherine's daughter than she ever had before.

Her Ladyship was still staring at her. She sputtered for a moment, before at last she managed to declare coldly, "I shall write you out of my will entirely, Anne. What will you live upon? Will the daughter of Sir Lewis de Bourgh keep house upon a _barrister's_ _salary_?"

"I will," Anne replied frankly, "and it will bring me the greatest of pleasure. Besides, let us not forget the matter of my dowry, of which I, at twenty-four years old, am mistress.—You may keep Rose's letters, Lady Catherine. Perhaps they will serve you as useful examples of honest goodness and affection. At any rate, _I_ shall not need her letters, for Rosamond herself is to be my sister before long. Mr. Hart and I shall dine at the parsonage this evening; Mrs. Collins has invited us. Good-night, your Ladyship."

And with that, she was gone.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** And so we find ourselves on the last chapter. And it's a mega-chapter! I hope everyone was satisfied by the previous installment—I feel I may have rushed to the proposal, but, honestly, I just wanted them to get together already. And you knew it was coming!

I know I said my "goodbyes" in the last chapter, but I just wanted to reiterate how incredibly gratifying it has been to hear from everyone over the course of the past almost-a-year (wow, I've been writing this story for like a super long time). Whether you've been reading since September, or just rushed through it today; whether you've commented on every chapter, or haven't left a single review; the fact that you're reading my dorky little story makes me indescribably happy. I'm over-the-moon grateful for everybody's support, and have honestly had a total blast writing this thing. As the first multi-chapter piece I've ever finished, _Miss de Bourgh in Bath _will always have its own small niche in my affection, and I couldn't have asked for kinder, more encouraging readers. So, again, thank you all so so _so_ much for reading, and I'm glad I was able to entertain you even a little.

I hope everyone is enjoying the summer!

* * *

Anne led Theo along her favorite path to the parsonage, which wound through the back gardens, down a grassy slope and through a quiet glade of trees. It was a rather longer path than any of the others, but Anne had always found it charmingly green and tranquil, and now, with the late afternoon sun emerging from the clouds and the rain still dripping from the leaves, she thought it perfectly lovely.

They walked, at first, in silence, she with her hand curled upon his arm, he stopping to help her, ever so carefully, over puddles and branches knocked down by the storm. The wet grass whipped at her skirts, and his hat was knocked askew by the wind more than once, but Anne could not bring herself to mind these little annoyances, so pleased was she, every time she glanced up into his face, and caught him gazing down at her, with such a _look_ about his features.

Before very long, however, Theodore being Theodore, the silence was broken. "I do hope," he began, sounding oddly bashful, "that your friends will not be offended by my attire.—I had not anticipated any dinner engagements on this journey, and brought only traveling-clothes."

"I daresay they will not mind," Anne assured him. "Mrs. Collins is quite without any pretensions of grandeur, which I believe is one of the reasons my mother likes her; she is so very willing to appear impressed, even when she is not."

"Your mother," said Theo in a low voice, as though he had just been reminded of Lady Catherine's existence. "May I ask, my dear, how she responded to the news of our" (he blushed, to Anne's delight) "engagement?"

"Quite as I expected," Anne replied breezily, feeling rather giddy at the endearment. "With fury and outrage, a declaration that I shall be removed from her will, and assertions that I cannot be in my right mind—as I say, quite as I expected."

"I am sorry," Theodore responded, after a pause, and he did sound it. "I am so very sorry."

Anne stopped in the path, and turned to face him, taking both his hands in hers. "You mustn't say so," she exclaimed.

"But I am," Theodore repeated, also coming to a halt.

"You cannot _regret_—" she cried.

"I have no regrets," he interrupted. "How could I? But you must understand—" He paused, and took a long moment to collect his thoughts.

"There was a time," he began again, "after I had realized my—affection—for you" (Anne did not think she could ever tire of that blush) "when I was considering making a proposal. This was after our first dance together, at the Assembly Rooms, and after you had described to me your mother's firm belief that she should find you a husband while in Bath, and your confusion on the matter. Do you remember our walk together, in Victoria Park?"

It was now Anne's turn to blush, for a rush of memory had swayed her: a gentle touch of the hand, and a voice. _I hope you will not take it amiss, if I tell you that I really am very glad that you have come to Bath._ "I do," she admitted.

"I had meant to propose that morning, but my courage failed me," Theo went on, looking rather disgusted. "I cannot recall what I said instead."

"I can," Anne breathed, quite shocked at his admission. To think that she might have been married by now—! But, she thought, perhaps it was better this way; perhaps her loneliness had given her a certain perspective, a certain understanding of what it meant to be happy and to be loved. It sounded rather foolish to her, of course, but that did not mean it was untrue.

"I resolved, as I was leaving you, that I must absolutely make my intentions clear at the next opportunity. Then as now, dearest Anne, I was perfectly in love with you. The circumstances of your being not only a lady of exceptional grace and goodness, but a particular favorite with all my family, and, in addition, charming and clever beyond compare, had convinced me that our union could only be a source of happiness to all the world—"

"What fine rhetoric!" Anne declared, laughing. "My Theodore, I believe you are stalling."

Theo smiled. "The story, if it can be called such, is less happy from this point," he warned her. "Shall you still like to hear it?"

"I am not afraid; I know already how it ends."

"After I had made this resolution, then," Theodore continued, "I awaited my opportunity; but, to my great misfortune, Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement to Miss Finch was announced only two days later, and shortly thereafter, your mother's feelings on that matter became quite publicly known."

Anne's stomach sank.

"In all my lovesick idealism," he went on, "I had entirely forgotten about the fact of your being Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park, and my being Theo Hart, the doctor's son. The divergence of our ranks and fortunes in that moment became clear to me, and on that basis I was obliged to conclude that the chances of my proposal being accepted were very small indeed."

They had begun walking again, Anne's hand settled firmly on Theo's arm, and she now gave his bicep a gentle squeeze.

"Furthermore, I realized that, by making a proposal to you, I would be placing you in an exceedingly difficult position. Your mother plainly disapproved of such unequal matches as that between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Finch, and ours should be even more disparate, our social circles being separated by a much greater distance than theirs, for your family shares no acquaintance with mine. If I were to ask for your hand, then, as I had intended, I should be asking you to directly oppose your own mother's wishes—even to flaunt your opposition—and doubtless causing no end of domestic hostility between you and your mother, which I had no wish to do. That her Ladyship should disinherit you for such an act, perhaps even banish you from your home, I was quite certain, and I did not think I could bring myself to cause you such pain.

"When next we met, I noticed a certain—coolness in your manner towards me; a certain unwillingness, on your part, to meet my eyes, or to walk with me, in the way we once had; and I convinced myself that I had done you some injury of which I was unaware. I wondered if you had perhaps noticed my preference for you, and, out of deference to your mother, were determined to refuse any future advances. I did as I thought you wished me to do, and I left you in peace, though, as you later discovered, I was not satisfied." He paused, swallowed. "It was at this time, I believe, that Miss Cates first caught my attention."

Anne gazed at him. "That, then," she said, quietly, after a long pause, "is why you became so strange—why you no longer spoke to me."

"Do you deny, then, that your manner also changed?" He did not sound angry; merely curious.

"Not at all," Anne admitted at length. "As you, in love with me, had convinced yourself that I should refuse you, so I, in love with you, had convinced myself that you should never want me."

"Never want you! My love, that is quite impossible."

"It did not seem so," Anne objected, blushing. "I have never thought myself handsome, or charming, or particularly attractive in any way; and I was quite aware" (she raised her voice somewhat, for Theo looked very much as if he wished to interrupt) "that Miss Cates possessed all of those qualities, in addition to many fine accomplishments. And she is well-liked among your acquaintance, and she has always been such a particular friend to Rosamond—"

"My sister no longer has that honor," Theo broke in, rather shortly. Anne glanced at his stony face.

"They are no longer friends?"

"No, indeed; not since you left Bath. There has been some falling-out between them."

"Indeed? How so?"

Theodore met her eyes. "I do not know the particulars; Rose, you know, cannot be induced to discuss anything she does not wish to. I know only that Miss Cates is no longer a welcome guest at Hart House, and for my own part, I am glad. I have come to realize that her character is not what I thought it, and that she is not a suitable friend for my sister. I am pleased that Rose has also come to that realization, for I should hate to have separated them against their will, or persuaded my father to drop the family acquaintance."

"Her crime must be very great indeed, if you would have done so." Anne could not entirely keep the rather ghoulish satisfaction from her tone.

"It is only the crime of deception, and of treating people poorly. I do not believe Miss Cates' affection for my sister, or indeed myself, has ever been genuine.—Is that Hunsford Parsonage?"

There was relief in his voice as he asked the question, and Anne, confirming that it was indeed, realized that the subject of Miss Cates must not be a welcome one to him. She was sorry to have mentioned the young lady, but could not deny the small joyful thrill that ran through her at Theodore's obvious displeasure where Adele Cates was concerned.

Mrs. Collins welcomed them pleasantly, though her husband was less composed. The privilege of having Miss de Bourgh in _his home_, to dineat_ his table_, provoked in Mr. Collins the greatest effusions of gratitude and admiration, for never before had such an event occurred. He was only too flattered, too elated, to make the acquaintance of Miss de Bourgh's friend, for whom he was pleased to have the very highest respect; for how could one not respect a gentleman, when Miss de Bourgh thought him agreeable? (This would not be the case upon the following morning, when Mr. Collins would learn, to his horror, of Lady Catherine's tremendous disapproval of the gentleman whom he had had to dine the previous evening, and would think it wise to conceal the fact of Mr. Hart's having been a guest at the parsonage, so as not to provoke her Ladyship's fearsome censure.)

The party sat in the little parlor before dinner, talking cheerfully over nothing in particular. In the absence of Lady Catherine, Anne was amused to find herself, instead, the object of Mr. Collins' sycophancy, for the clergyman agreed earnestly with her every commonplace utterance, and made many valiant efforts to turn the conversation to the de Bourghs' magnanimous condescension. A remark on the ferocity of the earlier storm prompted him to praise the sturdiness of the cottage, which was no doubt due to the many improvements which Lady Catherine had deigned to make upon his arrival at Hunsford; a reference to a picture which Anne had drawn incited a long description of Miss de Bourgh's many accomplishments, including her astonishing gift for drawing and her natural artistic eye, and the exceedingly generous gift she had made to the parsonage of a few drawings of hers, which were to be hung in the nursery. Anne's mention of Theodore's career gave Mr. Collins some little trouble, but he at last managed to inform Mr. Hart that he had never met a gentleman more admirable to him than a barrister, and that a barrister who could count Miss de Bourgh among his friends, was certainly one to be trusted; furthermore, Mr. Collins assured Mr. Hart that if he should ever have need of any legal advice in any quarter, Mr. Hart should surely be his primary source—"after, of course, my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who possesses really an exemplary knowledge of the law, for never having studied it."

Yet Anne felt strange, sitting beside Theo, and having a perfectly ordinary conversation, as she had so many times before at Hart House. Among such commonplace talk of the weather, and of village gossip, there seemed no room for the more compelling events of the afternoon. "We have had such fair sunny days this past week; I do hope it won't rain tomorrow" seemed miles away from "I do love you, Anne, as I could never love anyone else;" Theodore at her side, amiably answering Mrs. Collins' polite questions about his journey from Bath, seemed as though he could never have knelt before her, clasping her hands in his. It was as though she had been on the other side of the world, and only just returned, or as if she had woken from some long dream. Indeed, she thought, turning to study Theodore's calm visage, which gave no hint of the passion it had earlier displayed, perhaps it _had_ been a dream. She wondered if she were delirious.

But then Mrs. Collins turned to ask her husband some question; and Theo turned to meet her eyes, and smiled, and shifted so that his arm rested warm against hers. In that moment, Anne wanted more than anything to throw her arms about his neck, and rest her cheek against his strong shoulder. And, she realized feverishly, she could, she had the right, to embrace him if she liked, whenever she liked. But she had not yet told Mrs. Collins of their engagement, only of his being at Rosings, and anyway, such public intimacy was in poor taste, and so she refrained.

The meal was agreeable, but lasted rather too long, in Anne's opinion. And then the plates were taken away, and the ladies adjourned to the sitting-room, while the gentlemen sat and discussed—Anne didn't know what—politics, perhaps, though she suspected that the views which Mr. Collins expressed would be less his own, and more Lady Catherine's.

She and Mrs. Collins had scarcely been alone for half a minute when, having taken her customary seat in the armchair (Anne took her own, upon the settee), Mrs. Collins said pleasantly, "So this is your Mr. Hart, then, Miss de Bourgh?"

Anne blushed to hear him described so. "Indeed," she replied, rather shyly. "Do you—like him?"

"I do," Mrs. Collins replied simply. "I think him very agreeable."

"Is that all?" Anne asked, rather disappointed. Mrs. Collins smiled.

"We have an acquaintance of only two hours or so; you must not expect me to form an expert opinion in such a short time. I may add that he is also possessed of clear intelligence, and is not so excessively charming as to be suspect. He is good-humored and well-mannered, and though I cannot say so definitively, having had no opportunity to test them, I believe his principles to be perfectly sound."

Anne was thoroughly dissatisfied with this unromantic description of her intended, though she had hardly expected Mrs. Collins to produce an ode to him. Sensing her frustration, Mrs. Collins went on,

"At any rate, Miss de Bourgh, it matters very little what _I_ think. Do you find him now as gallant as you did in Bath?"

"Oh, yes," Anne answered, her smile returning. "I—I rather—adore him." She blushed hotly, casting her eyes to her hands, which sat folded in her lap.

"That is unfortunate," Mrs. Collins said carefully, "for did you not tell me that he is married?"

Anne looked up. "No, no," she said hastily. "It was a misunderstanding, for the young lady whom I thought he would marry, is quite—out of the question. And besides, he tells me he has only ever loved me." She lowered her eyes again, unable to keep the smile from her face. "He proposed to me this afternoon."

"Indeed? And did you accept?"

Anne looked up again, this time with some indignation. "Of course!"

Mrs. Collins was watching her with mild amusement. "Then," she said, "you have indeed managed to find some gentleman whom you could tolerate, day after day?"

Hearing her own words parroted back to her, Anne laughed. "I believe I shall enjoy every day I spend with him. Or almost every day; he can sometimes be rather quarrelsome."

"I daresay you shall not even notice, after the first decade or so," Mrs. Collins said, an uncharacteristically broad smile breaking across her placid features. "My heartfelt congratulations to you, Miss de Bourgh—truly."

"Thank you," Anne answered, feeling rather delirious once more.

"I did suspect it," Mrs. Collins continued. "His affection for you is quite apparent. I was beginning to be rather offended, on behalf of his absent wife."

Anne blushed, but thanked her again; and they passed the rest of their time, before the gentlemen joined them, in discussion of wedding-clothes, china patterns, linens, and other such domestic matters.

* * *

"What an odd gentleman, is your parson," Theo remarked, as they were walking back to Rosings. Anne had insisted that Theodore, who had taken lodgings at the inn in the village, use one of the de Bourgh carriages, rather than walking from the parsonage. Though the hour was rather late, and the stars had begun to emerge, faint gleams of red sunlight still hung in the summer sky.

"I do hope you were not very bored," Anne said worriedly.

"Not at all," Theo assured her. "I found him rather amusing, if it is not unkind to say so. He has a certain eloquence, and appears to possess a particular admiration for your mother."

The mention of Lady Catherine returned Anne's thoughts to their earlier conversation, and she was lost in thought for a moment, before at last she turned to her fiancé.

"You must realize, Theo," she began, apprehensively, "that her Ladyship will almost certainly keep her word. There is no entail upon our property, for it lapsed when my father died, and my inheritance is entirely dependent upon my mother's will. The only money I have in the world is my dowry; I shall never be mistress of Rosings, and you shall never be its master."

Theo glanced at her, a strange look upon his face. Anne swallowed, awaiting his reply.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, "that this should be the case."

And he said nothing further.

"But," Anne began, carefully, "you do still intend to marry me?"

His look grew even stranger. "Is that an honest question, my dear?"

"It is," she said indignantly.

"Then it deserves an honest answer: I do indeed, and you are a fool for thinking otherwise."

Relief flooded her all at once, and she nearly sank against him with the force of it; but she was not entirely reassured. "Yet you are disappointed?"

"I am disappointed, for your sake, that you shall be obliged to live rather more simply than you are accustomed to, for I am afraid my income shall not support the keeping of a park, unless there is some sudden and unprecedented rise in the number of legal cases in this country. I am disappointed that you shall be forced to keep house upon a barrister's salary, rather than a baronet's."

"I imagine I shall not mind it," Anne murmured. She did not think she had ever been so happy.

"I am most especially disappointed, and now I am being exceedingly grave and serious, Anne, so you must stop grinning—_stop_—how difficult you are. I am most especially disappointed that you will be forced from Rosings, and obliged to live all the time in Bath, perhaps with some short stays in London or tours of the countryside, when we have the time and money for them; for I know" (and now he truly did sound grave and serious) "that you are fond of these woods and hills and flower-gardens, and that they are your home. I should hate for you to be unwelcome in your home."

The thought of leaving her quiet countryside did, indeed, sound rather unpleasant to Anne; but she looked up at Theodore, who was watching her with concern. In reply, she tucked her hand more firmly about his arm, leaned against him, and set her head against his shoulder. His frame was warm and solid, and the cloth of his coat tickled her cheek.

"You told me," she said, "that you abandoned your idea of proposing to me, because you did not wish to raise hostility between myself and my mother. But, in case you did not notice, my dear, you did in fact propose to me this afternoon."

"Did I? How stupid of me."

She lifted her head from his shoulder, swatting at his arm affectionately. "It is evident that something has occurred, between our last meeting in Bath and your arrival at Rosings, to change your mind."

There was a long silence, during which Anne wondered if this were another painful topic for her Theo; but, at last, he answered:

"The twins."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It was the twins, who forced me to confront my—my feelings for you. I told you that Rose was distressed when she had no word from you, and she became convinced that she had injured you somehow, or given you some offense. She indeed became almost ill about it; she re-examined her conduct on every occasion of your meeting, searching for signs in your behavior or hers that would provide some hint."

Anne felt rather guilty, at this, and cursed herself for not writing Rosamond some little note, explaining that she had not received any letters, and expressing her own concern.

"At this point, Robert, who is rather more perceptive than any of us believe him to be, and who truly hates to see his twin so distraught (though he could not care less about the rest of us—ouch—that was a _joke_, my love)—Robert apparently reached the end of his patience, and at last snapped at Rosamond to stop tormenting herself, for heaven's sake, because it was _my _fault you wanted nothing more to do with us."

"I cannot believe it," exclaimed Anne, who, though she thought Robert Hart as amiable as the rest of his family, had never received much notice from him.

As though reading her mind, Theodore said, "He does like you, my dear; but he is reserved, and not given to shows of affection, and indeed rather unpleasant in general, so you may not have—_ouch_—will you desist?"

"You are very unkind to your brother," said Anne, who had swatted him again.

"He is the only brother I have; I am obliged to be unkind," Theodore replied, as though it were obvious. "What sort of man will he become, otherwise? Too soft and indulged to truly live in the world, I'll wager.—But to continue. Robert was the first to give Rosamond the idea of blaming me for your unhappiness; once he had, she was quite unshakable. She had, for some time, disapproved of my—conduct—towards Miss Cates with increasing openness; I did not know it then, but the friendship between them was already strained. She accused me of pursuing both you and Miss Cates at once, 'like a true blackguard,' as she put it. Never having realized that she was aware of my affection for you, I was quite shocked, which unfortunately gave her time to add a few more choice insults before I regained my power of speech.

"I told her of my dilemma, where you were concerned, and she informed me that I am quite unforgivably stupid, and insisted that, rather than disguise my cowardice as nobleness, I give you the opportunity to make your own decision in the matter, as is your right, for, as she claimed, your wit is undoubtedly superior to mine. I believe she also assured me that I am utterly blind and clearly unfit to live in the civilized world, and asked me how I thought to make a living in a profession which requires so much thought and understanding, when I possess neither."

"I am sure you are exaggerating," said Anne, laughing. "I cannot think sweet Rose capable of being so merciless."

"She is more than capable; she is positively eloquent, when she puts her mind to it. As you are soon to become a member of the family, I must warn you again to guard yourself against my sister's barbed tongue. She may appear perfectly amiable and harmless, but she is not to be trifled with. At any rate, as I told you, she did request that I come to Kent after my exam, 'to inquire about the letters, if nothing else,' but she also strongly hinted that a mere inquiry about the letters would be insufficient, as far as she was concerned. And so, because I am afraid of my sister, and because, as it happens, I am in love with you, Anne, I proposed."

"And I accepted."

"You did indeed, my dear; and now we shall be married, and live happily ever after.—Or almost happily ever after, for you are sometimes rather obstinate, and you do keep hitting me on the arm, in the same place, and I am sure you shall leave a bruise."

Anne apologized, attempting a grave air, though her lips twitched with a smile she was entirely unable to suppress. They had by this time reached Rosings Park, and, Anne having called for a carriage, they faced one another on the steps. Theodore smiled, and took Anne's hands in his own, the way he had that afternoon; but this was not enough for her, and she put her arms carefully about his neck, resting her cheek upon his chest. She could hear his heartbeat. He wrapped his arms tenderly around her small frame.

"You need not seem so sad, my love," Theodore murmured, and his voice rumbled against her ear. "We will see each other tomorrow."

Tomorrow, Anne thought, and the day after that, and the day after that, and so on into forever. She closed her eyes, feeling foolishly, incandescently happy, and tightened her embrace about him.

The carriage arrived then, the driver and footman looking rather embarrassed to catch Miss de Bourgh in such a private moment, and Anne separated herself from Theo with some difficulty. He took her hand and pressed it gently, as he had in the park, on that long-ago morning; but this time, he was not so quick to let go.

He did, of course, eventually, but not before the driver had cleared his throat twice. The carriage bore him away to the village, and the inn; and Anne, watching him go, at last turned and went into the house, and up to her own room.

She went immediately to the window, and looked out. The last dying stripes of sunset had faded into blue, and the stars gleamed quietly on the diminishing puddles that dotted the garden paths. A soft wind rippled the leaves and the dark grass. The moon was on the other side of the house, but Anne could see its chalky shadow on the tops of the trees and the flowers. The world, she thought, looked entirely peaceful, and somehow enchanted, and she was going to marry Theodore.

Her sleep that night was undisturbed, and she could not remember any of her dreams when she woke.

* * *

It was decided, the next morning, that they should be married from Bath, rather than Hunsford: first, because such proximity to Lady Catherine could not bode well for the wedding; second, because all of their friends were in Bath; and third, because Anne thought it rather cruel to oblige Mr. Collins to perform the ceremony, when he should surely spend all of it quaking in the face of his patroness' disapproval.

All that remained, then, was for travel arrangements to be made. Anne insisted that she pay for the expense of coaches and inns—"While I am still rich," she joked, and then could not believe she had dared to say it, but, to her delight, Theo laughed, and did not seem offended. He did attempt to insist on shouldering the costs himself, but Anne, aware that he had already spent a fair amount of money on his journey to Kent, waved away his protests and declared that their journey should serve as her mother's wedding-gift, since it was unlikely another would be forthcoming. They agreed to hire a post-chaise; from Kent to Somersetshire was two days' drive, if they were not obliged to linger overlong while changing horses, and Anne, despite her certainty that she should very much enjoy being a barrister's wife, nonetheless balked at the idea of riding in a crowded stage coach, or, worse, traveling cheaply by the mail.

They fixed upon the following morning for their departure, both of them being eager to return to Bath and having no real business to detain them in Hunsford. Anne wrote a hasty note to the Fitzwilliams, explaining the situation to them and begging leave to stay with them until the wedding, if it were not a great inconvenience. And, with the practical arrangements made to her satisfaction, Anne was obliged to begin the task of bidding farewell to Hunsford.

Her departure from Bath had taken up an entire week, and had been marked by activity. There had been calls to pay, notes to write, furniture to be packed, servants to be supervised. She had made the same pretty remarks to every body, and received the same pretty replies, in fine drawing rooms that blurred together in her memory, to the sound of rustling silks and measured voices: _I am exceedingly sorry to leave, but I shall always look back on my time here with great fondness. I am so especially glad to have made your acquaintance. I do hope we will meet in London; I daresay we shall spend the entire Season there._

Here in Hunsford, however, there was only Mrs. Collins to be called on. Anne and Theo walked to the parsonage through the village, Anne pointing out favorite shops and little landmarks along the way, hardly feeling as though she were leaving forever.

Mr. Collins was busy in the back garden, and Mrs. Collins was sitting peacefully in her sunny parlor, knitting. She rose to curtsy as Anne and Theo entered, and reclaimed her customary armchair, near the hearth. Anne took her own usual place on the settee, and Theo sat beside her.

"I imagine," Mrs. Collins began pleasantly, "that you have come to say good-bye."

"How did you guess?" Anne asked, smiling, though a lump had begun to form in her throat.

"Martha, one of our kitchen-girls, was in the village this morning, and overheard you ordering a post-chaise at the inn," Mrs. Collins explained. "Besides which, I did not imagine you should remain here much longer, now that matters between you have been—settled." She met Anne's smile with her own.

"I shall be sorry to leave you, Mrs. Collins," said Anne honestly.

"We shall certainly see each other again," the lady replied placidly. "Our common acquaintance ensures it. Mrs. Darcy is forever extending invitations to Pemberley, whether or not her husband shares her inclination for visitors."

"Still," Anne said, wistfully. "I do wish I could have been here, to see the baby."

"Do you think you will never come back?"

"I doubt my mother will be inviting me to Rosings in the near future," Anne replied, rather sadly. Theo, who had wisely kept silent, laid his hand upon her own.

"Rosings? No, I imagine you will not be welcome there, at least for some time. But, Miss de Bourgh, the door of the parsonage shall always be open to you, whenever you begin to pine for the Garden of England. And to you, Mr. Hart," Mrs. Collins added, smiling at him.

"Thank you, madam, for your kind invitation."

"You speak of Mrs. Darcy extending invitations, against her husband's wishes," Anne objected, laughing in spite of herself. "If Lady Catherine does not want me here, then surely Mr. Collins—"

"—can be prevailed upon," Mrs. Collins interrupted, looking rather mischievous. "You need have no fear of him."

"I am very grateful to you, then," Anne said, and the lump in her throat had grown rather thicker. "Good-bye, Mrs. Collins; you have been a most valuable friend." She rose to make her final curtsy, and Mrs. Collins rose also, but somehow, instead of curtsying, Anne found herself folding her arms about the parson's wife in a brief embrace. She could feel Mrs. Collins' surprise in the stiffening of her spine, but the lady responded within a moment, resting her own hands on Anne's back. They pulled away from each other, smiling (rather tearfully on Anne's part). Mrs. Collins curtsied.

"I am glad we have grown to know one another, Miss de Bourgh," she said kindly. "Your friendship has truly been a pleasure to me." She turned to Theo, and curtsied again. "Our acquaintance has been a brief one, sir, but I am pleased to have met you, after hearing Miss de Bourgh speak of you so ardently."

"Is that how she spoke of me?" Theo replied, with a raised eyebrow, looking rather pleased with himself. Anne blushed.

"Only on one occasion; after that, I believe you were quite forgotten," Mrs. Collins returned placidly, though there was a twinkle in her eyes. "Do treat her well, Mr. Hart; care for her."

"I could not do otherwise." He was looking at Anne as he said it.

"My dear! Mrs. Collins!" came a voice in the passage, and Mr. Collins burst into the room, looking very much out of breath. He halted in his tracks when he caught sight of Anne and Theo, and his face paled, but he dropped into a hurried bow. "Miss de Bourgh—Mr.—er—"

"Hart," Theo supplied, amused.

"Is something the matter, my dear?" Mrs. Collins asked calmly.

"Lady _Catherine_, Mrs. Collins," he hissed, still staring at Anne and Theo with horror. "She is only now coming up the garden path, and I daresay she is rather put out." He seemed entirely uncertain whether to treat Anne with her mother's disapproval, or his own deference, and he looked away. "I believe she wishes to—"

"So," Lady Catherine's voice drawled from the doorway. "Here you are, Anne."

Anne's heart fluttered nervously, but she mustered her courage and turned to face her Ladyship. "Here I am, mother," she replied, willing herself not to sound timid.

"My daughter and I require privacy," Lady Catherine said imperiously to Mr. Collins. "I desire you and your wife will take a turn about your garden."

Mr. Collins bowed, and took his wife's arm, pulling her towards the door. Mrs. Collins afforded Anne a sympathetic glance, but allowed herself to be led from the room. Anne watched them go, her heart in her throat. Lady Catherine surveyed her daughter, and then turned to Theo, who stood at her side. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, Anne was unable to determine his feelings; his features appeared perfectly calm, though Anne thought she detected a slight tightening around his eyes.

"And you, I take it, are the cherished Mr. Hart," Lady Catherine sneered, at last.

"Your Ladyship is very kind."

"Do not attempt to be witty; I loathe wit in a young man."

"I am sorry to hear it. I have always prided myself on my wit."

Lady Catherine's eyes narrowed. "Your insolence," she said coldly, "is no surprise to me. I quite expected you to be arrogant, and impertinent, with ambitions far above your station, and I am not disappointed."

"I beg your pardon, your Ladyship, but I have said nothing of my ambitions."

"Your appearance at Rosings, unlooked for and unwelcome, has told me everything I need to know. Your presumption, evident in the mistaken belief that you could persuade my daughter to accept a marriage so unsuitable for her, speaks volumes."

"Again I beg your pardon, your Ladyship, but I am not the one who is mistaken: Anne has agreed to be my wife."

"She is foolish," Lady Catherine snapped. "She is romantic and idle, and does not know what is good for her. She is a child."

"She is old enough to speak for herself, and I believe she has done so."

Lady Catherine sneered again, and fixed her eyes on Anne. "I do not know what you see in him, Anne. I suppose you may call him handsome, but only in the very loosest sense of the word. He has no apparent charm, and only _thinks_ he is clever. He is proud without reason, and he is quite clearly interested only in your fortune. I warn you, sir," she went on, returning her attention to Mr. Hart, "that _if_ Anne should marry you, she will be completely disinherited. As a lawyer, you must be aware that there are a great many strategies I can employ, to make my money completely inaccessible to you."

"It is your money, Lady Catherine," Theo replied coolly. "You may do what you like with it."

There was a long silence. "As I say, Anne," Lady Catherine said at last, her tone icy, "I do not know what you see in him."

"That does not matter," Anne answered, "for what I see in him pleases me very much."

"You are a stupid little girl."

"Not anymore."

"You will regret this decision."

"I disagree."

"Once you are married," Lady Catherine insisted grimly, "and discover that a marriage is not a fairy-story, and that you are not a princess to be rescued, and that _he_ is not a hero—then you will wish you had married well."

"I _am_ marrying well, Lady Catherine, and I have never considered myself in the role of the princess. I have not the figure for it."

Theodore let out a snort of laughter, which he made no effort to disguise. Lady Catherine glared at him.

"What an idiot you have chosen, Anne."

"Lady Catherine," Theo broke in, straightening his shoulders, "I believe it is _my_ turn to make some of these grand pronouncements, of which you seem so fond. Here is one: I am in love with your daughter. Here is another: I am going to marry her. Here is a third: we are going to argue sometimes, and sometimes we are going to grow quite sick of each other's company, but we are never going to stop loving one another. I am good at many things, Lady Catherine, and making Anne smile is one them, and another is making her laugh, and my favorite talent is making her happy."

Lady Catherine was staring at him, but Anne could not gauge her reaction, for she herself had turned to stare at her fiancé, whose features were set in a fierce mask. She could not help herself; she took his arm, and raised herself on her toes to press her lips against his cheek.

If Anne were a princess, and Theodore a hero, then Lady Catherine would have let out a sigh, and allowed a smile to break through her frigid glare, melted by the hero's warmth. She would have bowed her head to Theo's "pronouncements," admitted that perhaps Anne's marriage was not to be so disastrous as she had predicted, and recanted her threat to disinherit her daughter. She would have gained a new respect for Theodore Hart, and for Anne de Bourgh, and would have assured them of her attendance at the wedding, and of the generous gift which she intended to make them, for having shown her that true love does indeed conquer all.

But Anne was not a princess, and Theodore was not a hero. "You have until tomorrow morning to change your mind, Anne," Lady Catherine said instead. "After then, you are no longer welcome at Rosings Park."

"I understand."

"If you choose to leave, you may pack your clothes, but nothing else, and I am being charitable. By rights, all of your belongings in fact belong to me."

"I understand. Thank you, your Ladyship."

"Do not thank me, Anne; it is not for your sake. I refuse to have the world saying I turned my daughter out of my home without even the clothes on her back." There was a long silence. "I have nothing more to say to you, Anne. I pray that you make the right decision."

"I am confident that I shall, Lady Catherine."

"And you, Mr. Hart: I am not honored to have made your acquaintance, nor do I send any compliments to your family. I find you a thoroughly disagreeable young man, whom I shall not even call a gentleman, and I hope we may never meet again; if we do, I shall take no pleasure in it."

Theo only bowed. Lady Catherine gave them one last cold look, before turning and striding out of the Collins' parlor.

* * *

"I am heartily sorry for every time I have teased you about your mother, Anne. She is hardly as innocuous and comical as I imagined her," Theo remarked that evening, as they walked back into the village.

"How did you imagine her?"

"Oh," he replied, vaguely, "as the usual sort of bachelor-seeking mamma, whose first object in life is to marry off her daughters to lords and baronets, and whose second is to boast of her matchmaking to her envious friends. I did not imagine her quite so fearsome. And you have lived with her your whole life," he added, in a wondering tone.

"I have grown used to her," Anne said, smiling. "I have learned how to appease her, though pleasing her has always been rather beyond my skills. She only grows fearsome when she is opposed."

Theodore made no answer, but touched her hand lightly with his own, as they stepped through the doors of the inn. They had dined with Mrs. Collins, much to Mr. Collins' dismay (he himself had followed Lady Catherine back to Rosings, eager to reap whatever approval he could by sharing in her displeasure). It had been decided that Anne should spend one last night at Rosings, and Theo one last night in the inn, before meeting the post-chaise in the morning. Anne had her clothes to pack, after all; and besides, despite her mother's condemnation of her marriage, she did not intend her marriage to be a common elopement. She insisted on separate quarters for herself and her fiancé, until they were husband and wife, and to her relief, Theo did not argue.

They separated, then, Anne returning to Rosings and slipping up the stairs as quietly as she could, though in fact she had no fear of meeting anyone. Lady Catherine was certain to be avoiding her, as was her habit when they quarreled, and none of the servants were likely to speak with her, so subdued they would be by their mistress' vexation.

Anne's room was as strange to her now, as it had been on the night she returned from Bath. The furniture and decorations that had surrounded her for nearly twenty-five years, the things with which she had lived all her life, seemed at once familiar and alien. She found herself running her hand over the posts of her bed, the doors of her wardrobe, the surface of her writing-desk. The sheets on her bed, the familiar embroidery at which she had never really looked; these she would never see again. She would never again see her curtains drawn by her maid in the morning, or the fire lit in her hearth at night. And yet she did not feel regretful—she thrilled at the prospect of new familiarities, new habits, and new everydays. Her life, she realized with sudden piercing clarity, was about to change in one of the most fundamental ways it could. Her heart was pounding so, she wondered she could even breathe.

"Miss?"

Anne jumped, startled, and turned towards the door. Her maid had opened it, and was peering in.

"Forgive me, miss," Sarah said, blushing. "I—I was not certain—whether you needed me to undress you?"

"Not yet," Anne breathed. "But do come in, Sarah; you can help me pack."

* * *

Whether or not the drive to Bath, along the Guilford road, is in fact any longer than the drive from it, is a question for cartographers. Certainly, one passes through the same counties in each direction, and certainly one travels at approximately the same speed; but to Anne, who kept peering out of the window, hoping for a first glimpse of white stone buildings, it seemed as though they should have been in Bath hours ago. Theodore laughed at her impatience.

"Perhaps they have moved it," he teased. "Perhaps all of the ladies and gentlemen of Bath have developed a sudden taste for the sea, and we are now forced to go all the way to the coast, to find our city."

They were not in fact obliged to go so far, and Anne's heart leapt when they came over a hill, and the city spread out beneath them. From there, time seemed to go much faster, and they were soon passing along Wells Road, and crossing the river onto Charles Street, and turning into James Street, where the Fitzwilliams had their lodgings close to the center of town.

Her cousin and his wife afforded Anne and Theo an affectionate welcome. Indeed, the Fitzwilliams urged the young couple to dine with them, that Mrs. Fitzwilliam might surreptitiously press Miss de Bourgh for details on the proposal, the engagement, the wedding plans—indeed, the whole affair. Anne answered the lady's questions blushingly, though with a certain satisfaction, and was particularly glad to receive her cousin-in-law's advice on wedding-clothes and arrangements. She had never planned any event; indeed, she had attended very few, for a young lady of her age; and the details of menus, decorations, the hiring of musicians, and even the issuing of invitations, was quite beyond her.

They had arrived rather late in the day—too late, Anne noted with a mixture of disappointment and anxiety, for them to visit Hart House. She dearly looked forward to seeing the family again, particularly her poor Rose, whom she had so neglected; but the circumstances of her departure and of her return, and of the cold silence which she had unwittingly issued in the meantime, left her rather nervous of her reception there.

"I would not concern yourself," Mrs. Fitzwilliam assured her, when Anne confessed her fears. "It takes a very great offense to induce Miss Hart to hold a grudge, and her father is the same. Besides which, you and Miss Hart are such particular friends."

This had also been the case, Anne thought uncomfortably, for Adele Cates, whose position in the Hart household was now, apparently, somewhat more than precarious.

"Depend upon it, my dear cousin: you have Mr. Hart's love, and the warmth of the family will naturally follow. And they like you already," Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued, smiling.

They had also, once, liked Miss Cates. Anne slept ill that night.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, her visit to Hart House was to be the first event of the following day; Theodore was kind enough to collect her from the Fitzwilliams' in the morning, and escort her to Widcombe. Anne had resolved to give no hint of her apprehension, but she could not maintain the easy flow of chatter, which Theodore was attempting; at last, her fiancé inquired, and she confessed, rather sheepishly.

"Hart House," he told her gravely, "is the same as it ever was, and ever will be, and its inhabitants are no different now than when you left them. The one change is that they shall be greeting you as a sister, rather than a friend, so you must prepare yourself to be quite smothered with affection."

"But are they not displeased with me? I have behaved so abominably!"

"Indeed you have not; you have only been misled, and occasionally you have misjudged; you are guilty only of being human, my dear."

"I am afraid," Anne said, feeling quite foolish, "that your brother will mock me. I recall he is rather given to sardonic turns."

"He almost certainly will, for that is his nature. You may feel free to ignore my brother; it is what the rest of us do. Besides which, Robert will say nothing too unkind: he knows perfectly well that I am in love with you, and that I am both taller and stronger than he is."

Anne was rather comforted by this, though not entirely, and she clung more securely to her fiancé's arm. It was odd to be back in Bath, under such changed circumstances: it was as though she had never left, and as though she had been gone an age. The late summer sun warmed the pavement; a soft breeze rustled the trees; the flowers were grown a little thicker, a little heavier, and some of them were already dropping their blossoms. Anne imagined every lady who passed them to be admiring her Theo, and, while she did not know it, Theo was imagining every gentleman who passed them to be admiring his Anne. They walked on in comfortable silence, enjoying the fine weather together.

As Theo had assured her, Hart House was the same as it ever was. Anne's heart beat wildly in her chest as she climbed the familiar stairs, and she reflexively raised her hand to knock on the door, but Theo laughed and opened it for her ("I do live here yet, my love," he teased). It felt strange, to enter the house without a maid, without being announced, as if she owned it.

"Well," Theodore announced cheerfully, as they entered the sitting-room, "we are here."

Anne had forgotten, in the long months since her departure, how lovely Rosamond Hart truly was. The young lady was seated in her usual chair, a book in her hands; her golden hair, her large gray eyes, her slender form and her smooth complexion (perhaps grown a little browner over the summer) would have excited distinct envy in Anne, as it had on their first meeting, if the joy and the trepidation of seeing her friend again had left any room for further emotion. As it was, she could only stand and stare, as Rosamond lifted her eyes, and smiled.

"Anne," she said, calmly and kindly, and stood to curtsy.

It was not the exuberant welcome for which Anne had wished, but neither was it a cold dismissal. Rosamond was watching her, an odd expression in her eyes, and Anne had the clear impression that she was being somehow tested. An awkward moment passed, and it occurred to her that she ought to return the curtsy; but that was not what she wanted to do, and, quite unable to help herself, Anne instead took three steps forward and put her arms about Rose's frame, pulling her close.

Rosamond returned the embrace immediately, and Anne was delighted to hear her friend's much-loved laugh at her ear. "_There_ you are," Rosamond exclaimed, pulling away, though she held onto Anne's hands. "Dear Anne! And you said we would never meet again!"

"I said we should not meet for a very long time," Anne corrected her gladly. "I am so sorry, Rose—I should have written, as I promised I would—"

Rosamond waved away her apology. "Theo has explained every thing to me," she replied breezily, "and I am not angry; I could not be angry, for we are to be _sisters_, Anne!" And she laughed, and embraced Anne again, before pulling her to the settee. "There is so much for us to discuss! I have missed you terribly—and I know that is the sort of thing which all fashionable young ladies say to one another, Anne, but you must believe me, for it is painfully true, in this case."

"I can believe it," Anne answered, with feeling, "for I have missed you more than I could—" And, to her horror, she felt tears gathering. Rosamond smiled.

"You had better never go away again, Anne, for it seems we are a very sad pair of creatures, when we are separated. Robert tells me I have been particularly irritating these past months, and I imagine that is your fault. But you must tell me about your summer in Kent, and with a great deal of description, and indeed embellishment, if it makes things more interesting. You may feel free to lie to me; I shall not know the difference."

"I feel as if I am being ignored," Theo declared, in a wounded voice, still standing near the door. Rosamond looked up at him, startled.

"Theo! I had quite forgotten you were there." (Anne could not help laughing at the glare which Theodore aimed in his sister's direction.) "Do make yourself useful, brother, and go fetch the others. They are somewhere about the house."

Theo looked as though he wished to object, but Anne smiled at him, and he conceded without protest.

To be alone with her dearest friend was a pleasure which Anne did not think she could ever take for granted; to have Rosamond's rapt attention, to be free to speak and to listen to such a valued companion, was more gratifying even than Anne had remembered. She talked of Kent, of walking in the park and of visiting Mrs. Collins, of reading novels and of her first attempts at drawing. Rose appeared quite enchanted by Anne's descriptions of the gardens, and the thunderstorms, and the quiet glades where Anne had spent such peaceful afternoons. Of course the topic most on Anne's mind was that of Theodore's arrival at Rosings, and his proposal, of which Rose was glad to hear—though she did curtail Anne's more romantic descriptions of the way Theo had looked when he came in from the rain, when she met him in the study, when he had knelt before her, and so on. "I am glad you think Theo so handsome, Anne," Rose interrupted apologetically, looking amused, "but you must remember that he is my brother, and I can only hear so much praise of him, before I begin to feel rather queasy."

In this way they passed the time very pleasantly, until Theo returned with his brother and youngest sister in tow (Anne suspected that Theo had perhaps taken longer about his errand than was necessary, to allow her plenty of time to enjoy Rose's company). Anne rose to greet them, and was shocked to find Juliet's arms almost immediately flung about her shoulders, and a sweet kiss placed to her cheek. "I have written you a wedding-poem," the child declared solemnly, pulling away. "I think it is my best work."

"I have no doubt of it," Anne assured her.

"How ridiculous of you, Anne," Robert drawled, "to have made such a fuss about your going away forever, only to return again before six months have passed. I do hope you will not expect such fanfare for all of your comings and goings." But he was smiling, and at a bit of jostling from Theo, he came forward and clasped Anne's hand companionably.

"Out of all the young ladies who might now have been marrying into this family," he added conspiratorially, "you are by far the least repulsive."

"_Robert_," his twin said, in a tone of rebuke.

"Anne is to be our new sister," he protested, moving to sit on the settee. "I cannot treat her any differently than I treat the rest of you; I should hate for her to feel left out."

"As I told you, my love," Theo said grandly, handing Anne into a chair, "you are perfectly within your rights to ignore every thing he says."

Anne thanked him, laughing, but in fact was rather pleased by Robert's teasing; for how many times, when her acquaintance with the Harts was yet new, had she envied their easy repartee, and the fond, good-natured way in which they ridiculed each other, and laughed at each other, and argued with each other? She was well aware that such teasing was, for this family, a manner of showing affection, and that she no longer merited particular politeness or formality was, she thought, perhaps the highest compliment she could have been paid.

The five of them remained in the cheerful sitting-room for some time, and Anne began to grow rather nervous. She was uncertain, at first, why she should be so troubled; but upon closer examination of her feelings, she concluded that she was unconsciously marking how much time had passed, and how much time she had remaining until Mrs. Jenkinson grew suspicious. What a relief, what honest joy, to remind herself that there was no Mrs. Jenkinson to check her enjoyment, nor Lady Catherine waiting at home—that she was free to sit with the Harts all morning, to walk with them in the afternoon, and to dine with them in the evening, with no fear of being missed, seen, or _suspected_. Never before had Anne been so liberated from the constant shadow of what Lady Catherine might say: she had no longer to worry that the freedoms she claimed for herself might lessen the freedoms she was granted by her mother. Anne, at last, belonged to herself.

Or almost—for nobody could really belong entirely to themselves. Anne belonged now to Theo, to Rose, to the rest of the Harts; she belonged to the Fitzwilliams, to Mrs. Collins, and a bit, she admitted grudgingly, to the Darcys.

Yet there was a difference, Anne reflected, between belonging to someone, and being owned by someone. Naturally, she much preferred the former.

Dr. Hart, who had spent the entire day with various patients, returned home in the evening to dine with his family, and he greeted Anne with all the affection for which she could have hoped. He seemed entirely unsurprised to find her at his table, and his features, while expressing obvious pleasure in meeting Anne as his future daughter-in-law, remained quite composed throughout the meal. Anne, glowing with happiness at his calm approval, mused that if she should ever introduce them, the serene Dr. Hart and the placid Mrs. Collins would likely become fast friends.

The next two weeks of Anne's life were a blur to Anne herself, and can hardly be recounted with any degree of faithfulness in the details. A pattern emerged: much of the day was generally taken up with wedding-planning and paying calls, while evenings were spent at Hart House. Though most of the more fashionable families had departed from Bath, much of the acquaintance that Anne had met through Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Harts yet remained; and so there were still friends to see and invitations to issue.

Anne was glad, and somehow not entirely surprised, to discover that Rosamond had begun making wedding arrangements almost as soon as her brother had left for London and Kent. "It was an act of optimism," Rose admitted, rather sheepishly, but Anne, who had no genius for preparation, was overjoyed to find that the wedding plans were not to be left entirely to her own management, for Rosamond proved a most efficient, and enthusiastic, organizer. Furthermore, both of the Hart sisters, and occasionally Constance Fitzwilliam, were more than willing to escort Anne throughout the city and its environs, like loyal handmaidens, assembling a menu, hiring musicians, selecting a church (Bath Abbey, to Anne's disappointment, proved rather too expensive), purchasing wine and, of course, choosing wedding-clothes. (The last item on this list was, naturally, Anne's favorite.)

Far from neglecting her kind hosts, Anne was encouraged, by Dr. Hart himself, to invite the Fitzwilliams to dine at Hart House whenever they pleased. The Harts and the Fitzwilliams had been previously connected, Theodore and Colonel Fitzwilliam sharing mutual acquaintance and Rosamond counting Constance among her friends; but everybody was pleased to pursue the connexion to a greater degree of intimacy. Indeed, the two families discovered a great many common interests and enthusiasms, and the evenings they spent together were jovial affairs.

There were moments, of course, when Anne was not paying a call or keeping an appointment, and Theodore was not engaged with a client or running some errand, and neither of them had been claimed by another member of the family, that the two were able to be alone together; and it was for these moments that Anne lived. That she had so quickly come to depend upon Theo's smile, his laugh, his quiet conversation and his closeness, was rather alarming to her, but it could not be helped. The short walks which they took together were becoming Anne's favorite part of each day, and she had privately decided that these walks must remain a tradition even after they had married, and set up house together, for she could think of no greater pleasure than promenading through the park on her Theo's arm.

There was only one thing needful to make Anne's inclusion into the Hart family quite complete; and even this was taken care of, a week before the wedding, when Anne's usual visit to the household was interrupted by the sound of a rattling carriage stopping outside, and a flash of bright color outside.

"It cannot be," Rosamond murmured, her wide eyes fixed on the window—but Anne had no time to ask _what_ could not be before the door to the sitting-room opened and the maid entered, announcing, with a curtsy, the arrival of Mrs. Bontecou.

"You ought to say _Madame_, Lucy," said a lady's voice in the passage, "for really it is more correct," but the lady was laughing, and within an instant she had swept into the room.

Mrs. Bontecou's fair hair and gray eyes were enough to distinguish her almost immediately as a relation to the Harts; and if that were not enough, her joyous exclamation of "Dear little Rosie!", and the familiar manner in which she swept Rosamond into her arms and even, to Anne's shock, spun her in a circle, as if they were dancing, were evidence of Mrs. Bontecou's being part of the family. Thus, when Rosamond, laughing, her cheeks red, introduced the lady to Anne as Helena, the long-absent eldest sister, Anne was quite prepared to believe it.

Mrs. Fitzwilliam had once declared Helena the true beauty of the family, and Anne could see how such an estimation might be made. Helena Bontecou was taller than her sister (who was admittedly rather diminutive), and slender, with exquisitely formed features and fair coloring that matched the rest of the family. At seven-and-twenty, a year older than Theodore, she had yet lost none of her fine girlish complexion. Her bearing was graceful, her conduct charming and vivacious, her wit and energy readily apparent. She had, it was clear, the ability which Anne had always found elusive, to gain the attention of a room from the moment she stepped into it.

Yet Anne had also heard rumors of Helena's wildness, and indeed it was true that the lady resembled her animated brothers more than her tranquil sisters. She spoke energetically, she laughed unreservedly, she flitted carelessly between French and English, and she seemed quite unaccustomed to sitting still. When Juliet, hearing her sister's voice, tripped into the room, Helena was only too glad to swing her about as she had Rosamond, laughing and pinching the child's cheeks, to Juliet's delight. Indeed, that she had succeeded in addressing Rosamond as "Rosie," an endearment which Anne had once heard Theodore employ, and for which Rosamond had given him a very dark look, was proof that the family was accustomed to Helena's eccentricities. The lady's dress was unlike anything Anne had ever seen; if the streets of Bath were far removed from the country lanes of Hunsford, then the promenades of Paris must be another world entirely. Mrs. Bontecou was a fashion plate of bright colors (her shawl was green, her gown was pink, and her bonnet sported a yellow ribbon), layers, gathers, and intricate embroidery, a distinct contrast to the simpler muslin gowns in which her sisters, and indeed most of Bath's ladies, usually dressed.

Anne was, quite frankly, rather intimidated by this lively, fashionable figure, and was glad to go unnoticed by Helena while that lady exclaimed over how her sisters had grown, and how well they looked, and demanded what they had been doing with themselves, and inquired of little Julie whether their sweet Rosebud had any beaux that she could be teased about, and wondered as to the whereabouts of their troublesome brothers. It was only after all of these sisterly formalities had been covered that Helena happened to glance in Anne's direction, and immediately rebuked her Rosie for not introducing them earlier.

"But I know who you are, _bien sûr_," she continued matter-of-factly, "for your look reveals it all; is this not Theo's Anne, Rose?"

"Indeed she is," replied Rosamond, smiling, "but he does allow us to borrow her sometimes."

"How good of him! You look far too kind and sensible," this to Anne, "to be marrying my brother—I am sure you must be greatly deceived in his character. He is hardly as clever as he pretends to be."

Anne, blushing, thanked her for the compliment, but assured her that she was quite undeceived; Mrs. Bontecou was delighted by the blush, and declared Anne to be _charmante_, as sweet a creature as ever she saw, and afforded her the same fond embrace which she had given her sisters (though, to Anne's relief, there was no spinning in circles).

"But Helena," Rosamond interjected, "what in the world are you doing in Bath?"

"Did you not receive my letter? La!—I suppose I left it rather late, as I posted it on the morning of our departure from Paris. How encouraging, to know that a person may travel faster than a letter!"

"Encouraging indeed," Rose agreed.

"My Gabriel had some business in London, which he is even now concluding; and as I thought it would be a crime indeed to come to _la belle Angleterre_ without once catching sight of my own kin, I persuaded him to extend our visit by a fortnight, that I might come to Bath and stay awhile. We arrived in London on Thursday, and I left there yesterday, and Gabriel will join me here tomorrow. Are you thrilled to see me, _ma petite_?"

"Perfectly so; and you know, Helena, that now you shall be in Bath for the wedding."

"_C'est magnifique_! How enchanting! Do you imagine Theodore would have me thrown out, if I disrupted it? I have never been thrown out of a wedding, and it would be such an accomplishment to be thrown out of my own brother's.—Poor Anne! You need not look so worried, for I never mean anything I say, do I, Rosamond?"

"You certainly must not, for I remember you used to talk of your own wedding a great deal when we were young, and then for some reason you chose not to have one at all!"

"Indeed! But what is life for, if not to surprise oneself?—_Ma foi_! I had quite forgotten about _him_!"

The man to whom Mrs. Bontecou referred was the driver of her post-chaise, whose face had appeared at the window; and the lady immediately rushed out of the house, coin-purse in hand, to settle her account with him. The room seemed a great deal quieter, once she was gone, and Rosamond met Anne's eyes cheerfully.

"I adore my sister," she confessed, "but her society does often make me rather tired."

Anne smiled at her. "I think I shall call you Rosie from now on. It suits you well."

Juliet thought this quite amusing, but Rosamond looked highly affronted, and declared that it certainly did not, and Anne mustn't dare.

"Rosebud, then?" Anne suggested.

"I shall never speak to you again!" But Rose was laughing. Mrs. Bontecou returned, and the conversation was quickly resumed, as Rosamond pressed her sister for details of Paris, and Helena pressed Anne for details of the engagement, and Juliet pleaded with them all to say nothing of great interest, until she had time to run upstairs to the play-room and retrieve her little writing-desk.

* * *

Lengthy and minute descriptions of weddings are all very well in theory; but in practice, they are more often tiresome and slow than romantic and satisfying. Suffice it to say that Anne, despite a lifetime of plainness, was declared by all who saw her to be a charming bride. The ceremony was neither longer nor shorter than most other wedding-ceremonies, and the church was neither too full nor too empty. Out of courtesy, Anne had extended invitations to her mother's circle, including the Hammonds and Dalyrmples; but, as she had expected, those invitations had been politely declined. Instead, the event was attended by the friends she had met through Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Harts, who were able to take more real joy in the union than any of her better-connected but less-beloved acquaintance would have done.

The party that followed was an enjoyable one: the food was excellent, the music lively, and the company merry. Anne was much engaged in receiving congratulations and kind wishes from every body, which she did with good grace, though she would rather have been with her husband (the word did not yet seem to fit Theodore, though she felt a distinct thrill every time she used it). The Bontecous endeavored to teach several of the younger ladies and gentlemen one or two French dances, which were then danced with varying degrees of success. Anne took great pleasure in dancing two cotillions with Theo, as she had done at the Assembly Rooms so long ago, and then attempted the Scotch reel, though she found it rather more difficult.

On leaving the dance floor, Anne found herself swept again into the crowd to receive blessings and goodwill, and it was some time before she managed to extricate herself; but, at last, Robert appeared to witness her distress and arrived to engage Anne's latest well-wisher in conversation, allowing his grateful sister-in-law to slip out of the ballroom and into the cool night.

She leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, her heart pounding. The city was still; only the calm wind and the distant rattle of carriage-wheels disturbed the peace. The smell of flowers yet hung in the late summer air, although a few of the trees had begun to change colors, and Anne realized how very much she looked forward to seeing Bath in the autumn, and the winter, and again in the spring. She rested her head against the stone, closing her eyes for a brief moment, and smiled.

"Am I disturbing you?"

His voice sent a thrill down her spine, and Anne turned her smile in his direction. "Never."

Theodore came towards her, and took her in his arms. "That is not true, my love; I will disturb you sometimes. It is inevitable. We are married, and married people are forever disturbing one another."

Anne laughed, and buried her face in his chest. "Say that again."

"I will disturb you sometimes."

"You know what I meant."

She knew he was smiling, though she could not see it. "We are married."

"Yes," Anne whispered, breathing him in, happier now than she could ever remember being, "we are."

* * *

The Darcys had been unable to attend the wedding, due to Mrs. Darcy's coming confinement; but they reiterated their autumn invitation to Pemberley, and were kind enough to include not only Mr. Hart, but Miss Hart as well. Rosamond seized with alacrity the opportunity to travel, even if it was only to Derbyshire.

"I am sorry that it is not Paris," Anne told her honestly.

Rosamond shook her head. "It is not," she agreed, "but neither is it Bath."

The Fitzwilliams had also come to Pemberley, as had Mrs. Darcy's mother, with two of her younger sisters in tow. It was a cheerful party, though even with the addition of Theo, poor Mr. Darcy was still, as his wife had predicted, very much outnumbered. Yet he bore it with good grace, and Anne was surprised to find that he and Theo got along very well indeed, despite the differences in their manners.

Mrs. Bennet was at first quite disinterested in the Harts, one of them being a married gentleman and the other being an attractive young lady, and therefore neither of them being particularly useful to her own campaign to see all her daughters married; but once she discovered that there was a second Hart brother, she resolved to pursue the acquaintance in whatever manner she could. She appeared to have a potential co-conspirator in Rosamond, who confessed to Anne that she hoped to have her twin married before very long.

"After all," she said serenely, "we will be twenty in the spring, and I am determined that Robert will at least have an _understanding_ with some young lady, before we are twenty-two. For that is the age when I imagine I shall begin to want a husband, and I cannot find one with a protective brother looming over me. Theodore has grown much more accommodating in that area since your marriage" (this with a nod to her brother, who was seated with them), "and I am hopeful that the same effect can be achieved with Robert."

"I understand," Anne intimated, amused, "that Mrs. Bennet hopes to have the elder Miss Bennet married within roughly the same timeframe. Miss Bennet appears to be of a steady, sympathetic nature, and I believe she is your age."

"Do not encourage her, my love," Theo pleaded, though he looked ready to laugh.

Miss Bennet was, at that moment, settled in an armchair with her head bent over a volume of Fordyce's. Rosamond gave her an appraising look. "If only she would read fewer sermons, and more novels," she sighed, "she might do very well indeed. Do you not agree, Theo?" But Rosamond was at that moment called away by Kitty Bennet, who was doing her best to teach Miss Darcy a new dance, and urgently required Miss Hart's assistance.

Georgiana appeared much improved since Anne saw her in the spring. She had at first been rather obviously discomfited by the multitude of people at Pemberley; but Rosamond's gentle kindness, and Kitty's frank friendliness, in addition to the undoubtedly comforting presence of the Darcys and Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Anne's own amiability, appeared to have lessened her timidity somewhat. Georgiana was now quite capable of laughing and chattering with Kitty and Rosamond, and the three of them were often to be seen together, traipsing the halls and gardens. (Unfortunately, she yet seemed rather afraid of Mrs. Bennet, whose excessively eager admiration of Pemberley and every thing in it, including Miss Darcy herself, rendered her society rather daunting.)

The Harts spent two idyllic months in Derbyshire before Theo was obliged to return to his practice. Upon their departure, Mrs. Darcy extracted a promise that the Harts should visit again in the spring, to see the baby; and Mrs. Bennet, still intent upon claiming the acquaintance of the younger Mr. Hart, mentioned that she and her daughters might come to Bath for the Season, if Mr. Bennet would allow it. With such comings and goings to look forward to, Anne was not at all sorry to leave Pemberley.

And so they returned to Bath, and to Hart House, though their residence there was to be temporary. Between Anne's dowry and Theodore's wage, they were soon able to procure lodgings of their own in Carlton Road, well-situated between Widcombe and the center of town, only a few minutes' walk from a very pleasant little park which formed the ideal setting for their evening rambles. The rooms were smaller than at Rosings, or the Royal Crescent; the walls were papered cheaply, and there was a distinct draft in the kitchen and in the second bedroom; but there was a study for Theodore, a sitting-room for Anne, and the large windows offered a great deal of sunlight and an interesting view of the street below. Anne set vases of fresh flowers on the window-sills, and enlisted her sisters-in-law to embroider pillows for her new chairs and settee, and in truth, when all was arranged to her satisfaction, she could not imagine a place more agreeable or homely. (It was rendered all the more so, of course, by virtue of belonging to herself and to Theodore, of being theirs together, a fact which she thought could make even a prison-cell seem attractive.)

Anne had sent Lady Catherine a polite note, informing her of her marriage and of her new address, and from this act of kindness arose a terse correspondence between mother and daughter. Lady Catherine prevailed in addressing her letters to Anne de Bourgh, rather than Anne Hart, and never made any mention of Theodore or his family; her letters were indeed more like lists of events, offering the news from Hunsford without very much commentary. There was no intimacy, no warmth, no affection, in her Ladyship's letters to her daughter, and Anne, who had never been a great letter-writer, responded in kind; but it was nonetheless a correspondence, and Anne was glad to find that Lady Catherine had not entirely eliminated her daughter from her life.

Whether or not Anne had indeed been eliminated from her will was another question, but Anne suspected that her Ladyship had made good on this threat. Occasional letters from Mrs. and Miss Darcy gave the impression that Lady Catherine was attempting to take Georgiana under her wing, as the heiress of Rosings in Anne's place; but Anne, recalling to her mind the image of Georgiana walking arm-in-arm with Kitty and Rosamond, thought privately that her Ladyship's hopes were certain to be disappointed.

It did not signify, at any rate; for while her new home could not compare to the splendor and luxury amidst which Anne had been raised, she could not bring herself to pine for Rosings Park. Anne and Theodore took long walks in the evenings; they dined simply, often with the company of various friends and family members—as the reader might have expected, both the Harts and the Fitzwilliams were frequent visitors to Carlton Road. They attended parties and assemblies, and even the occasional concert; they often met at tea-shops during the day, when Theodore had a moment of respite in between clients and Anne had a moment of respite in between errands.

Marriage, as Lady Catherine had ominously declared, was not a fairy-story. Anne was not a princess in exile, and Theo was not a hero in disguise. They were, quite simply, a lady and a gentleman, a man and a woman, who had fallen in love and combined their fates, and were doing their best to live well in the world. Anne's life, after her wedding, did not dissolve into happily-ever-after: there were yet appointments to be kept, bills to be paid, chores to be done and errands to be completed. Anne had to learn how to keep a house of her own, with only the help of a cook and a single scullery-maid, rather than the bevy of servants to which she had long been accustomed. (She found Rosamond a great help in this, for her friend had been keeping house for Dr. Hart since Helena's marriage, and was an exceedingly adept manager.) She had to learn how to select goods for their worth, rather than their attractiveness; she had to learn how to hem her old gowns, rather than ordering new ones. Anne had never before given much thought to such words as _economy_, or _frugality_; but she was quick to learn that while their finances did ensure a comfortable living, they could not afford to squander their money.

Anne and Theodore argued, usually in good humor but occasionally with a fierceness that left Anne with her eyes red and watering, and Theo with his face pale and stricken; but they always forgave one another, usually before so much as an hour had passed. They worried together: over money, over Theodore's practice, over the prospect of having children, over each other, over the younger Harts (for, married or no, Theo would always be an attentive eldest brother). In between these worries and arguments, they laughed a great deal, and talked, and teased, and kissed.

But Anne's favorite moments were the quiet ones, when she was absorbed in a novel which Rosamond had lent to her, and he was poring over the papers of whichever client had the most pressing need, and the only sound was that of the fire crackling in their hearth. It was in these moments that she could set her book on her lap, and simply look at him. And usually, as though feeling her gaze, Theodore would lay down his papers, and turn to her, and smile.

"I hope, my dear, that all is well?" he would inquire.

And Anne would return his smile, for she could never do otherwise. "I assure you, my love," she would reply, "all is very well indeed."


End file.
